Beneath the Surface
by Clez
Summary: When Miguel makes a bad decision it could have lasting ramifications for not only the seaQuest, but for the rest of the world as well. Can he get himself, and the seaQuest, out of the danger he's put them in, or is he fighting a losing battle?
1. Taking the Bait

**NOTES:** I haven't written anything in this fandom in something crazy like _fifteen years_ or more, and I went back and read that previous attempt recently and all I can say is this: I really hope I do the fandom justice this time around. Anyway, that being said! I recently tumbled back into this fandom around Christmas, when I randomly discovered the SyFy channel playing episodes in the mornings, and I fell back in love with the show. I loved it an insane amount a long time ago and I've really rediscovered my passion for it, even if objectively I know it had its problems. So I took it upon myself to give in to the temptation to have another crack at writing a fic, and here we are. I've been taking my time with this, trying to get myself comfortable with the characters' voices and personalities, which is being helped along by re-watches of the right episodes. Setting-wise, I'm very much a Season Two cast person (for the record, the Season One cast was _spectacular_ \- I just find it easier to write the Season Two crew) and timeline-wise this is all set after the penultimate episode, Blindsided, and for me, that's where the show ends. Needless to say I hated the end of the second season, as well as the entirety of the third, so in my mind they never happened. For the sake of this fic, and any others I write, that will be the case. I hope that's okay with everyone!

Anyway, that's enough of my ramble. Please do let me know what you think, I would love to hear your feedback, and I will do my best to update this fic regularly :D

* * *

No sooner had he set the shot glass upside down on the table than another tray was being brought over to a chorus of good-tempered protests and raucous disbelief. The liquor was still burning down his throat as he listened to the people around him questioning just why another round was being delivered already, the heavy and strong taste of the alcohol lingering in his mouth as he looked across the round table at one person in particular.

It didn't take a genius to figure out who was responsible.

Piccolo's voice rose effortlessly above the loud music and clash of overlapping voices from all around them. "What?" With a broad gesture he continued, "I told 'em not to let us run dry. That's all!"

"You paying for these, Piccolo?" Even as he asked that question, Brody was reaching across to take one of the fresh shots from the tray.

Looking around at the faces of those gathered Piccolo shrugged and shook his head, gesturing again before he said, "We got a group tab, right?"

That triggered another rush of voices, some of them objections that were somewhat ruined by the laughter they rode out on while others argued that since the shots had already been ordered _and_ delivered it would be a shame and a waste to _not_ drink them.

"Okay, okay!" Brody's voice cut across the clamour and he laughed, holding his claimed shot aloft. "Look, it's the last night of shore leave. We're back on the boat tomorrow." He looked around at the others gathered, brows lifted as he studied them each briefly in turn. "It's gonna be a while before any of us get to drink like this again, right?"

Miguel couldn't help but laugh at that, shaking his head and looking around at the others gathered. They were all considering it, glancing to one another and then down at the shots. One by one they took the small glasses and held them aloft as well. With the taste and burn of the last shot still lingering Miguel threw caution to the wind and claimed one as well. "What the hell," he said, looking across at Brody whose smile had become a grin.

The Security Officer counted down from three and no sooner had he finished the count than they were all downing their shots. Miguel couldn't help the small groan and the hiss through his teeth as the taste that had already been sitting heavily on his tongue and in his throat was amplified intensely.

To his right Lonnie grimaced and coughed once before she managed to gather her voice enough to say, "If I have a hangover tomorrow, I'm holding both of you guys responsible." She indicated both Brody and Piccolo in turn.

"Hey," the shorter man protested, holding up his hands, "don't blame me for your low tolerance." He grinned.

A handful of discarded pretzels went sailing rapidly across the space between Lonnie and Tony, catching the latter off guard. He started to complain loudly about being assaulted, turning various affectionate barbs and teasing jabs in his direction. Lonnie started to laugh in earnest, adding her voice to the light-hearted barrage.

"If it comes down to a fight between you two," Miguel cut in, looking between Tony and Lonnie, "my money's on Henderson." That got the reaction that he had been expecting with everyone but the Seaman himself breaking out with laughter or cries of feigned shock. The woman in question met Piccolo's gaze and raised her hands to either side as if to say _There you have it_ before she too started to laugh.

"You're all against me," Tony complained loudly, his expression turning sour but Miguel could tell that the other man wasn't as hurt by their ribbing as he was making out. He suspected that Piccolo was just glad to be off the ship for a while, and happy to have been included in their outing. They had all been there at one point or another, unsure as to whether or not they fit in or were wholly welcome, and Miguel remembered a time not too long ago when he had been in that position himself. A lot had changed since then, not just in terms of crew compliment but with the _seaQuest_ herself. She had been destroyed and rebuilt since those days, sacrificed for what anyone would surely call the greater good. Her sacrifice had saved the entire planet, a cost that might have seemed too high to some but not to her crew, who understood the severity of the situation they had been dealing with. Captain Bridger had made the right choice, and Miguel suspected they would be hard pressed to find any sensible person who would disagree with them. Some of the UEO bigwigs who worried more about money than other matters like the overall state of the planet they all lived on might have been unhappy about what it had cost to fund the _seaQuest_'s reconstruction but the fact that they had gone ahead and funded it anyway said a lot about the vessel's ultimate worth.

Really, saying that a lot had changed since those days was something of a laughable understatement. As Miguel looked around at the faces of those gathered at the table and listened to their carefree chatter and laughter he found himself glad for many of those changes. The new additions to the crew were welcome ones, and though those who had left during the _seaQuest_'s rebuild would always be missed, they had all had their reasons for moving on. Miguel couldn't fault anyone for making choices that they believed would better their lives in any way. Hitchcock was a perfect example, obviously, now commanding her own vessel, a position for which he believed she was perfectly suited.

Not so long ago the man to Miguel's left had thought to do something similar, leaving the _seaQuest_ in order to pursue another path, thinking that he had no place or real purpose among the crew. His best friend could have told him that that was a crazy thought, about as far from the truth as anything he had ever heard. Everyone knew that Tim O'Neill was the best at what he did, and whether or not he believed it for himself he really had made a difference, not to mention an impact, on the _seaQuest_ and her crew, as well as her ongoing mission. There was no reason for him to think otherwise, and Miguel was just glad that the other man had come back, even if he had been somewhat shoved in that direction after what had happened with Mariah.

With a glance to his side he saw that Tim was pulling a face that clearly said he wasn't enjoying the alcohol as much as everyone else and he smiled quietly, bringing one hand up to pat his friend on the back. That triggered the Communications Officer to turn his head and laugh a little sheepishly. "I think," he said, not loudly enough to be overheard by anyone else, "I'm just about done."

Miguel's smile grew, though not without sympathy. "Yeah?"

Another sheepish laugh and a shake of the head was Tim's initial response while he took the time to summon his voice again. "I know when I'm beat." Setting his hands against the edge of the table he said, this time loud enough for the others to hear him, "I think I'm going to head back."

"Aw, man, really?" Piccolo actually looked genuinely disappointed. "C'mon, Tim—"

"No, no, no," he said, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose and then waving his hand in the air. "I've officially lost count and that means I've had too many." He made a vague gesture with the same hand towards the various glasses on the table top. "You guys have fun, okay? I'm just going to go and pass out for—" he consulted his watch, "—seven and a half hours."

Piccolo screwed up his face. "Ugh. Don't remind me how soon we gotta be back."

"Do you want someone to walk back with you?" Lonnie leaned around Miguel just enough to meet Tim's gaze as he rose from his stool. She managed to ask the question casually enough not to make it obvious that she was reluctant to let him go anywhere on his own. His kidnapping hadn't happened all that long ago and they were all still a little on edge about him being in similarly vulnerable situations.

From the look on Tim's face it seemed as though he had seen right through Lonnie's attempt at disguising her concern, but to his credit he didn't look annoyed in the slightest. "I'll be okay," he assured her. "But if you're ready to head back too, I wouldn't say no to the company." He smiled at her, and she thought about it for a moment before she nodded her head, conceding to the fact that she might have had enough as well. She pushed up from her seat, moving around to join the Communications Officer.

Miguel slapped one hand lightly on the table, saying as he did so, "I'll head out with you guys."

"Really, Miguel, we'll be—"

"Take it easy," he chuckled, meeting Tim's gaze. "I just want to get some air. Even by _my_ standards it's hot in here." That and the back-to-back shots were starting to have a definite impact and some fresh air would go a long way towards helping him clear his head of the buzz that was starting to settle in. Patting Tim on the back again he got them moving forward, amidst calls of farewell to the former who waved his hand in the air as they went.

Lonnie led the way through the crowd, the smallest of the three and therefore better suited to find the best path. As she stepped into small gaps between people they widened the gap to let her pass and in doing so permitted the passage of her male companions. Miguel brought up the rear, stepping out of the bar and into the cool night air last, drawing a deep lungful of it and almost instantly feeling better for it.

"You sure you don't want to head back with us?" Lonnie asked, tilting her head in the direction they were intending to walk.

Miguel shook his head. "I'm good," he told her, smiling, before he jerked his head back towards the doors behind them. "Someone's gotta keep an eye on these guys, right? Who knows what kinds of trouble they'll get themselves into otherwise?"

"What about Jim?"

With a laugh Miguel said to Tim, "I think Piccolo's a bad influence on him."

"Well," Tim returned, "good luck. You'll need it."

"Tell me about it." He clapped his friend on the shoulder again. "See you tomorrow." With a nod and a smile for Lonnie as well, he let them get going, pushing his hands into his pockets and clearing the doorway so new arrivals could enter the bar as he watched the pair head off down the street. There were plenty of people around, he confirmed at a glance, and he trusted that the pair would get where they were going without any trouble. That didn't stop him from watching them until they were more or less completely out of sight though, enjoying the cooler air as he did so and feeling it clear enough of the buzzing cloud in his brain that he was confident he could keep going for a while. Eventually he would hit his limit like anyone else but he planned to at least _try_ to keep up with everyone else. He figured he had a pretty good chance of doing just that, and besides, like he'd told Tim and Lonnie, _someone_ had to try and keep the two men still sitting inside out of whatever trouble they might get themselves into otherwise.

"Hi."

The voice snapped him out of his reverie and turned his head to the left to see a woman, who showed him a smile when their eyes met. She was tall, for a woman, standing pretty much eye-to-eye with Miguel himself, with fairly short blonde hair and eyes that could have been either blue or green. It was difficult to tell without seeing them under direct light. For just a moment Miguel allowed himself to take in the other specifics of her appearance, from the slope of her jaw and her easy smile to the way she stood with her weight balanced comfortably more on one side. It emphasised the curve of her hips. In an instant he brought his eyes back up to hers, realising as he did so that he hadn't responded to her yet. "Hi." He offered her a smile in return.

"Taking a break?" she asked, glancing over his shoulder to the bar's entrance. "Or are you waiting for someone?"

Miguel tilted his head a little to the side. "The former," he admitted with a small laugh. "What about you?"

She tilted her head in the other direction. "The latter."

He would have made a terrible joke about how he hoped she wasn't being stood up if she wasn't very obviously a striking woman, the sort of woman any man would be mad to skip out on spending time with. Whoever she was waiting for was lucky, as far as he was concerned.

"I'm Sasha," she said then, holding her hand out in the offer of a shake.

With a smile he drew his hand out of his pocket to accept the offer. Her grip was firm and confident, and her hand was pleasantly warm in his. "Miguel," he returned. "Nice to meet you."

"And you." She smiled back at him, going on to lean her weight a little further to the side so that her shoulder rested lightly against the wall. Once again Miguel found his gaze drawn down to her hips, if only for a moment. "This is one of my haunts," she said to him, "but I don't think I've seen you around here before." Her smile widened as she went on to add, "I'm pretty sure I would remember you."

It was impossible not to smile at something like _that_. "Just passing through," he told her.

"Oh?" Dropping her gaze for a moment she said, just loudly enough for him to hear, "Shame." She brought her eyes back up to meet his, her bottom lip caught just lightly between her teeth.

Miguel watched her, his gaze drawn to her lips as she stood there looking at him like that. Even as he watched her, she closed the gap between them, just by a fraction at first and then a little more boldly. He thought about reminding her that she was waiting for someone but it was like there had been some kind of disconnect between his brain and his mouth and the words didn't form.

Before he even realised that she was close enough to do so she had pressed her lips to his. That same disconnect kept him from questioning whether or not it was such a good idea to respond in kind, and so that was exactly what he did. She took his response as a sign to deepen the kiss, her hands going to his waist even as her tongue brushed firmly over his own.

Someone close by said something to a friend at their side in a low voice and there was an equally hushed rush of laughter that prompted Sasha to break the kiss, but only so that she could give him a tug by his belt, encouraging him to follow her around the corner of the building and into the alley that ran its length along the side. Miguel went along without a word of complaint, not even so much as casting a glance back over his shoulder.

The others might be wondering what was keeping him but it was just as likely that they were amusing themselves so thoroughly that they hadn't even noticed how long he had been gone. He didn't have to rush.

Sasha put her own back to the wall, pulling him close enough that his hips pressed against hers as she rekindled the kiss. He wrapped one arm around her back as it arched away from the wall and lifted the other to bury his fingers into her hair at the back of her head. She made a low sound at the back of her throat when he did that, a pleased sound, shifting her weight just enough to press her hips a little more firmly against his own. It made his heart skip a little, his blood running hotter at the suggestiveness of the motion.

Oh, he was in trouble.

When the kiss broke Sasha let out a small, breathless laugh, looking into his eyes as they opened. She didn't so much smile at him then as smirk, the expression decidedly mischievous and satisfied.

In the moments that followed the kiss' end Miguel's brain managed to reengage enough for him to remember what he had been going to say before they'd ducked out of sight. "I thought—" He had to pause a moment to gather himself more fully. "I thought you were waiting for someone."

"I was," she assured him, that smirk still in place. She tilted her head just a fraction again and there was an unquestionably pleased light in her eyes as she went on to say, "_You_."

Miguel felt his brow furrow as he frowned, having enough presence of mind then to release his hold on her and start to step back. Under normal circumstances what she had just said would have been undeniably intriguing, undoubtedly flirtatious, and while there were still elements of the latter there was something about the way she was looking at him that made him doubt it was just a line. Before he could ask her what she really meant a movement to his right turned his head in that direction, part of him expecting a blow and instinctively bracing for it. But it didn't come.

Instead he had just enough time to feel Sasha's hand land at the back of his neck, cupping it fully, and then the world went black.

* * *

She watched silently as his body went limp under her touch, falling towards the floor only to be caught on the way by the figure who had stepped out of the alley's shadows moments beforehand. The newcomer caught the man effortlessly, his own weight already bowed ready to do so over his shoulder. Without even missing a beat he regained his full height, barely even seeming to register the burden he now carried.

"Good timing as always," she acknowledged with little more than a glance, holding up a hand to instruct him to wait before she strode with calm purpose towards the alley's mouth once again. There, just around the bend, the girl who had been laughing with a friend was still standing in the cool night air, obviously enjoying how refreshing it was in contrast to the stifling heat of the bar.

With next to no effort at all she beckoned the girl towards her, reaching out a hand for her as she broke away from her friend and moved closer. The girl responded in kind and all it took was a moment of that physical contact to get the job done. She gave the girl a smile, almost proud, before she slid her hand free and stepped back into the alley, turning smoothly as she did so and heading down into the shadows her companion had emerged from only moments before. He followed behind her without a word, still carrying the limp form of Senior Chief Petty Officer Miguel Ortiz.

* * *

Their group had shrunk rather dramatically in a short space of time and Tony was wondering about suggesting moving on to another bar, if only to free up the table for the people who were frequently glancing in their direction with varying degrees of frustration and envy. The table could seat six comfortably and now it was just the two of them. Maybe they could take up seats at the bar instead.

As he turned to his lone companion to suggest the idea he saw Brody sitting up straighter on his stool and craning his neck to get a look at the bar as a whole. "What's up?" he asked the larger man, trying to follow his line of sight but failing miserably. He could try to support himself on the lowest rungs of the stool to get a better vantage point but knowing his luck, and the amount of alcohol he'd already put away, he'd probably end up slipping and making an idiot of himself.

"Miguel said he was heading out for some air," Brody said as he turned his head back, shaking it a little. "I thought he'd be back by now."

Tony shrugged his shoulders before looking down at his own watch. "Huh." It _had_ been a while. "Think maybe he changed his mind and headed back too?"

Brody's brow had creased in that way that Tony knew meant he was thinking it over, briefly drumming his fingers on the table's surface. Tony had a pretty good idea what the other man was thinking, a suspicion that was confirmed when the Security Officer said, "I'm gonna go check."

"I'll tag along," Tony said. Before Brody could protest he added, "Table's kinda big for three guys anyway. I figured we'd let another group take it." His companion dipped his head in a nod and then started to lead the way through the crowd, weaving in and out of groups and flirting pairs of people with the kind of cool and confident ease that Tony could only aspire to emulate.

Soon enough they were stepping out into the night air and it was only at that moment that Tony realised just how hot it was in the bar. Miguel had had the right idea in stepping out for a while, but as Tony turned his head left and right he couldn't see any sign of the Sensor Chief. Glancing at Brody he concluded that the taller man had come up empty as well, and he followed the Lieutenant down the few steps leading up to the bar's entrance in order to get a better look around.

"You see him anywhere?"

Brody shook his head, turning slowly in a full circle to try and catch a glimpse of their missing companion. After a moment he stepped away from the entrance, heading toward the side of the building and looking down the alley that ran the length of the bar. When Tony caught up with him he was frowning.

"He probably just took off with O'Neill and Henderson." Tony shrugged again, looking down the street to see if he could spot anything in that direction but even if he was right then too much time had passed for him to be able to see their crewmates.

"Without telling us?" Brody didn't sound convinced. Tony couldn't help but be doubtful as well, even if it had been his suggestion. This was Miguel Ortiz they were talking about, a responsible and considerate guy who wouldn't just take off without a word, especially not if it might cause any trouble.

"Hey." The voice came from their left, turning their attention in that direction to find a young woman leaning against the wall with a friend. She was cute, Tony thought, but when she kept talking he managed to bite his tongue and keep it to himself, at least for the time being. "Are you looking for your friend?" she asked them, looking between the two of them. "Tall guy, black hair, kinda Spanish-looking?"

_Cuban_. Miguel or Tim would have corrected the girl, the former with an easy, charming smile and the latter matter-of-factly, but Tony did neither, instead just nodding his head while Brody said, "Yeah. Did you see where he went?"

The girl smiled and laughed a little, looking to her friend as she chewed on her bottom lip, looking almost bashful for a second. "_They_ took off," she said to them with a hint of a giggle in her voice. Before either Tony or Brody could ask what she meant she went on, "He and this woman were all over each other. They said they were going to head back to her place." Her eyes were dancing with amusement as she added, "For privacy, you know?" She was turning back to her friend then, the two of them giggling amongst themselves.

Well. So much for responsible. With his brows raised Tony looked up at his companion, who turned his head down to meet his gaze. "I guess he ditched us," Tony said, managing to sound only a little put out. If anything he couldn't help but feel jealous. Even without seeing the woman that Miguel had ditched them for his imagination was doing a good job of convincing him that she was a catch. Of _course_ she was. The Sensor Chief and the Lieutenant beside him always managed to attract the hottest girls.

"I guess so." Brody spoke the words with a sigh and clapped Tony on the back. "So now what, Piccolo?" He summoned a smile. "Head back inside or call it a night?"

Snorting out a breath Tony said, "You kiddin' me? I'm not lettin' Ortiz have all the fun tonight." He was already heading back towards the bar's entrance, hearing Brody's laugh ring out from behind him. As they climbed the steps he looked back over his shoulder to say, "And I swear to God if you swoop in and do your whole Lieutenant Charmin' act I'm gonna kick your ass."

Brody laughed again, louder this time. "You can _try_, Piccolo."

Try and fail, more like. Tony didn't say it out loud even though they both knew it was true. Holding his tongue he just tossed a glare over his shoulder as he pulled the door open to head back into the hectic crowd.


	2. In Too Deep

It was like a switch had been flipped. One moment there was nothing at all, no sensory input of any kind, and then he was suddenly aware and alert. It was so abrupt and so complete that it was disorienting and near overwhelming, and it took him several seconds to piece together the last fragments of his memory. As soon as he had he raised his head from where it had been dropped down close to his chest and looked around, trying to take in his surroundings.

The room, or at least what he could see of it, was dark. It was a large space, a sizeable open floor that looked as though it might have once been used for storage or, if the scars and scuffs he could see across its surface were any indication, perhaps to house machinery of some kind. There were still some carcasses of old factories dotted around in more built-up areas, he knew, and as he turned his gaze upward and spotted how far away the ceiling at least _appeared_ to be he suspected that was where he was.

But that didn't help him much.

There was nothing specific in the area that he could see and not nearly enough light to see by in order to make out anything useful. What little light there was filtered in from a high window off behind him somewhere, but he couldn't turn his head enough in that direction to confirm as much.

A firm tug on first one wrist and then the other confirmed something else: he was restrained, and securely at that. Whatever held him to the chair he was sitting on was tight without being painfully constrictive, and when he strained against the bonds he couldn't feel any chafing of rope or bite of metal edges. Even with barely any light to see by he turned his head down to try and see what was holding him, just able to make out a fairly large cuff of some kind closed around his wrist, keeping it trapped against the upper leg of the chair. Clenching his fist he pulled on the restraint again, not just jerking this time but actually pulling against it and holding the pressure. Just faintly he could make out the tell-tale creak of leather straining.

When his arm started to ache he released the pressure and tried to twist his wrist to test if the restraint had loosened at all.

It hadn't.

"Dammit." His frustration only grew when he tried to move his legs and found them similarly restricted, identical leather cuffs closed around his ankles and holding them fast to the chair as well. And the chair itself wasn't budging either, he discovered, no matter how forcefully he shifted his weight in any direction.

"Careful now," a voice said from behind him, out of his line of sight. Miguel tensed despite himself, stilling so that he could listen to the sound of footsteps approaching from the same direction. "We wouldn't want you hurting yourself."

He waited until the owner of the voice had stepped around to his side enough for him to see them properly before he said anything. "Sasha." It was a redundant thing to say, really, but Miguel felt at least a little better for being able to summon and use his voice. It made him feel a _little_ less powerless. It wasn't much but he would take what he could get.

It was probably too much to hope that all this was just some sort of harmless fun on her part. Even if that _was_ the case, he would have to tell her he wasn't really interested. Even though there were guys out there who wouldn't complain about being put in this sort of position, especially not by a woman as striking as the blonde standing nearby, he wasn't one of them.

Even as the thought crossed his mind Miguel knew it was a ridiculous one. Too much about the situation felt wrong for it to be anything of the sort.

She gave him a smile. "Actually," she said, "it's Irina."

Given the situation he had found himself in Miguel wasn't shocked to find out she'd lied about her name. "What is this? What do you want?" Hopefully it wasn't an audience to some great speech about injustices or some sort of persecution of which she had been a victim, and for which she blamed the UEO. He and everyone else aboard the _seaQuest_ had just about had their fill of those sorts of proclamations.

"Straight to business, hmm?" She laughed a low laugh and tilted her head. "An admirable quality, I suppose, even if it _is_ less enjoyable."

Miguel tried not to think about what she might mean by that. But if nothing else it confirmed his suspicions on her intentions: _definitely_ not harmless fun.

Sasha, or rather _Irina_, came to a stop in front of him and looked down at him, standing so calmly and so casually that it made his restraints all the more frustrating. That small hint of a smile that he had so recently found intriguing and genuinely attractive lingered on her face as she said, "I could spin some story for you and try to win you over that way, but I don't think either one of us is interested in wasting time. Are we?" The smile grew, briefly becoming a grin. She shook her head, stepping closer. "No, there's no point in playing that game." She was close enough after that step to reach her hand towards his face, drawing in a slow, deep breath as she did so.

What he could only assume was not so very long ago he would have allowed her to make that contact, and gladly, but now he was reluctant to let her touch him for so much as a second. Miguel pulled his head back and out of her reach.

Irina compensated quickly by closing what little distance was left between them and using her freedom of movement to her distinct advantage. Her hand caught hold of his chin and she was able to jerk his head forward and down again. "But just _look_ at you," she said with a sigh, practically purring the words. "Who could blame me for wanting to have a little fun?"

Damn. He really _was_ in trouble.

Miguel managed to wrench his head out of her grasp. "I hate to disappoint you," he said, allowing a slight edge to slip into his voice, "but this really isn't my idea of fun."

"No?" Irina smiled a slow smile at him and when she moved again it was just as drawn out and purposeful. Taking her time with the motion she lowered herself to sit in his lap, able to do so effortlessly and without any real resistance from him, though it wasn't for lack of effort on his part. Futilely, and perhaps foolishly, he tried to push back in the chair but neither he nor the seat moved even the slightest amount. As his frustration flared she settled herself on his legs, effectively straddling him. Miguel told himself to stop wasting his energy, to just sit still and tolerate it to the best of his ability. He would need to save his strength for when it really mattered, when an opportunity to escape presented itself.

One of Irina's brows curved delicately upward and she seemed to fight a smile even as she said, "You didn't seem to have a problem with me touching you before." Lowering her eyes she played her fingers across the front of his shirt, her nails catching briefly at the material.

He hadn't. At all. That was true. Miguel knew it would have been a lie to say otherwise so instead he kept his mouth shut, focusing on controlling his breathing, and in turn, his heart rate. He had to stay calm and collected. He had to keep his composure. She was a beautiful woman, that much hadn't changed, and with the alcohol in his system and the lowered inhibitions that went along with it he hadn't had the slightest problem with getting close to a perfect stranger, especially one who was so obviously and keenly interested in him.

Stupid, really. He should have known better. After what had happened with Tim, and so recently at that, he _really_ should have known better.

He shouldn't have had that last shot.

With a low roll of laughter Irina traced her hand up from his stomach to his chest, lifting her now narrowed eyes back to his as she said, "Really? You're going to blame the _alcohol_?" She made a _tsk_ sound with her tongue and shook her head gently. "You and I both know that isn't true."

It was like a flood of ice water had filled his veins. Miguel had been trying to fix his eyes anywhere but her face, attempting to starve her of the attention she so desperately seemed to want from him, but those words jerked his gaze up and to her face instantly. Registering his obvious shock she showed him a wide smile, both of her brows lifting expectantly. Miguel remembered the feeling of her hand touching his neck before oblivion had closed in and speaking in barely above a whisper he said, "You're a psychic."

When she responded it wasn't aloud, her voice instead carrying as clear as a bell through his head. _"Guilty as charged."_

Closing his eyes and giving his head a shake as if he could get her out so easily he pulled in a sharp breath and tried to clear his mind. The _seaQuest_ had had enough run-ins with psychics for him to know that he had to do everything in his power to guard all the information he possessed. _Focus on nothing_, Captain Bridger had told them when Clay Marshall had come aboard. That was exactly what Miguel tried to do then.

Irina let out a laugh even as she settled her hands on his shoulders. "That's cute," she told him. "A complete waste of your time, but cute all the same." She was actually _smiling_ at him.

Keeping his mind blank wasn't easy. He wasn't used to it. Given his position aboard _seaQuest_ and the intense and extensive training it had taken to qualify for it in the first place, Miguel had grown accustomed to keeping his mind busy and active, always working away at problems and solutions and everything in between. He liked to be _doing_ something, and so even mental inactivity had never been the sort of thing he was known for.

"You're thinking," Irina began, relaxing her position enough so that her arms were loosely dangling over his shoulders, something that required her to lean that much closer to him, "that you can't possibly have anything of value for me to take out of your mind." Her eyes searched his face up close as she went on, "And you're thinking that you can shut me out if you clear that pretty little head of yours." The fingers of one hand played through his hair at the back as she said that. Miguel tried not to flinch. Irina showed her teeth when she smiled again. "Whoever told you that was an effective tactic didn't know what they were talking about."

He brought his eyes up to her face again. There was little more than two inches separating them now. She was too close. Much too close.

"_Am_ I?" she asked him, tilting her head again, almost as if considering the notion. She let out another of those small laughs as she said, "I can get _much_ closer than this."

And then she kissed him, her hands going to either side of his head to hold him there as her lips pressed firmly to his own. Even when he tried to pull away he found that he couldn't, and with a great swell of alarm he realised that the tension in his body was melting away as the seconds passed. In the next instant the alarm eased and bled out of him as well.

It was only when she pulled back, breaking the kiss, that the tension and the alarm came surging back. It was forceful enough that it momentarily robbed him of breath. He couldn't hide his shock as he looked her in the eye, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.

Irina's smile was oddly reserved then as she looked right back at him, letting several seconds pass before she said, "You know what that was, Miguel. I _know_ you do."

His blood ran cold again. Because he _did_ know, or at least he suspected. Clay Marshall had exercised a similar kind of power during his time aboard _seaQuest_ even if he hadn't utilised it in the same manner that Irina just had. Despite himself Miguel pulled against the restraints holding his wrists again, a very real sense of dread beginning to creep through his veins.

She brought one hand up again, using it to brush some of his hair out of his face. "_There_ it is," she murmured approvingly.

_Breathe_. He had to breathe. Take control. Calm down. Be rational. Slowly and steadily he drew that breath in through his nose and let it steady him before he even tried to speak. When he did he was able to do so without his voice betraying the tension he was feeling under the surface. "If you wanted to control someone from _seaQuest_, you should have picked someone higher up the chain of command." He knew his place, where he stood in the grand scheme of things, and he didn't have any delusions about what sort of power he wielded on the boat. "I don't control any critical systems and my clearance will only get you so far." Miguel actually allowed the slightest smile to show then, hoping that the woman sitting astride him would pick up on just how true his statements were, and just how big a mistake she had made.

"True," Irina agreed without delay, still sitting comfortably across his lap.

With a furrow in his brow he let his frown show. That wasn't the reaction he had been hoping for. "So why me?"

Her smile showed anew. "Because who would suspect _you_?" Her fingers brushed lightly along the underside of the line of his jaw. Miguel couldn't help but pull his head away. "By your own admission your access is limited, but you're well-respected, and more importantly, you're well-_liked_. Not to mention trusted." She lowered her hands to his chest. "Honestly? I could have taken any of the three of you and achieved the same results, but I have to admit—" she angled her eyes back up to his and took her lower lip between her teeth just as she had outside the bar, "—I'm glad it was you." With a devious lilt to her voice she leaned in closer and said in a hushed voice, "The other two just aren't my type."

The other two. _Tim and Lonnie_. She would have taken whoever she could get her hands on. Miguel allowed himself a moment to be relieved that neither of the others had fallen prey to the woman sitting astride his lap then.

Irina made a low sound in her throat. "I hope they know how much you care about them. And I hope that affection isn't misplaced on your part. It's always a shame when you put your faith in the wrong people." At that she slid back and stood, removing herself from his lap at last.

But Miguel's relief was short-lived. No sooner had Irina cleared his legs and stepped back than a strong hand was landing on the back of his head and pushing the whole thing forward and down, forcefully enough to make his neck ache and flood his whole body with alarmed tension. In the next instant a sharp, tight pain pulsed through the back of his neck, harsh enough to make him give a small, breathless cry. And then, as suddenly as it had started, it was over: the hand was gone from the back of his head and he could lift it again, wincing as the pain in his neck persisted.

To his left stood the figure from the alley, a fairly imposing man of respectable height and build with close-cropped hair and a stony expression on his gruff face. In his hand he held a device of some kind, something that looked like a medical injector but with subtle differences in the overall design. It didn't look like standard UEO issue, that was for sure.

"A little something to keep you in line," Irina told him, glancing briefly to her silent companion. "I'm sure you're aware that even strong psychics have a range, and therefore limitations." Spreading her hands a little to her sides she went on, "I'm no exception, unfortunately, but we live in a delightfully technologically advanced age." With one hand she reached towards her companion, who wordlessly set the device in her palm. "The implant Evan just injected you with will allow me to connect over much greater distances than I, or any other psychic, would otherwise be capable of."

There was something about the look on her face that told Miguel that wasn't all.

She smiled, obviously sensing his expectation. "And it gives me the ability to completely overwhelm and subdue your conscious mind at any time."

That didn't sound good. The ball of dread that had started to form in the pit of Miguel's stomach grew a little larger.

Her smile became a grin, if only fleetingly. "Essentially," she said, "it will allow me to take control of your body, while giving me full access to your mind and everything in it."

Miguel actually felt genuinely nauseated for a moment but he fought to push it down and away. He didn't have time for it. "_Why_?" She hadn't explained any of this yet, what she hoped to gain from doing what she claimed she could do. What she _was_ doing.

Irina glanced briefly to Evan and back again. "Why else?" she asked, shrugging her shoulders as she tossed the injector back to the man. "Money."

Miguel allowed his incredulity to show.

"Do you have any idea how many people would pay for the sorts of secrets and advancements your precious little submarine holds?" She moved close enough to set her hands on his knees, bowing herself closer to him once again. "Weaponry, scientific research, technology. You name it, there's someone out there who would pay a handsome price for it."

"I've already told you—"

"You don't have full access to classified information, blah blah blah." Irina shook her head at him. "But you can _get_ it. Somehow." She smiled. "You're a very smart and very resourceful man, Miguel Ortiz. Don't pretend otherwise." Leaning in a little closer she went on to say in a stage whisper, "And you have _friends_." Taking a moment to meet and hold his gaze she said in a more normal volume, "And it's remarkable what friendship can get you, if you know how to use it."

Miguel hadn't even realised he was shaking his head until he started to respond. "I won't do it. I won't let you." Before the words had even finished leaving his lips he was regretting them. What an unbelievably stupid and redundant thing to say. He had meant to sound defiant and resilient but it felt like he had fallen so far short of the mark that instead it was almost laughable.

"Oh, sweetie." Irina took his face in her hands. "You won't have a _choice_." And then she kissed him again, harder this time but more briefly. Miguel thought it was more to shock and discomfort him, to drive her point home, than anything else.

Maddeningly, it worked.

"Now." Irina pulled in a breath and once again slid herself into place on his lap. "You might want to brace yourself, handsome." When his gaze met hers she gave him a look that was obviously meant to convey sympathy but he could see the faint hints of amusement in her eyes that ruined the effect. "This is going to hurt." She stroked her hands from the sides of his face back along his head, her palms almost covering his ears, her fingers raking through his hair. Her fingertips pressed firmly against his scalp.

"What are you doing?" He tried not to let her hear the apprehension in his voice. He had a feeling he failed. Miserably.

"Leaving an impression." And that was all she said before an unbearable pressure flooded his skull, and with it pain. It swelled and built and intensified until Miguel thought it was going to destroy him, until he couldn't bear it anymore, and then it pushed even further. He didn't hear himself screaming as the agony shoved him all the way to the edge and then over it completely into the blissful oblivion of unconsciousness.


	3. Reporting for Duty

The launch bay was hectic but Lucas had more than enough experience navigating such a busy space post-leave to know the best route to take to cut out most of the jumble and confusion. With the ease and comfort of someone who was more than at home on the boat he weaved, ducked and sprinted his way through the crowd of returning officers, enlisted, and non-coms in order to clear the bay and make his way into the corridors beyond. There were still plenty of people moving around of course, most of them back in uniform with a few still in their civilian clothes, but it was much easier to move around beyond the chaos of the bay.

In next to no time at all Lucas had deposited his duffel in his and Tony's room and emerged once again, seeing no reason to confine himself to quarters. Most of the people he passed greeted him in one way or another, a favour he returned with a brisk smile and a nod of his head, and as he came around to the nearest mag-lev entrance he encountered the first of the most familiar faces on board coming out of the doors as they opened. "Tony, hey."

"Luke! How'd your leave go? You meet any pretty girls?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

With a laugh as he shoved his hands in his pockets Lucas replied, "No. I was too busy working on the upgrades for—"

"Oh my _God_, Lucas." Tony flung his free arm skyward before he dragged it over his face. "You know it was shore _leave_, right? As in _leave the work on the boat_?" Sighing dramatically he went on to say, "I have so much to teach you about kickin' back and takin' a load off, kid"

Lucas had seen first-hand how Tony Piccolo did just that and he sincerely doubted he could learn much of anything from the man in front of him but he was willing to let his roommate give it a shot anyway. "Next time, Tony." Nodding towards the other man's bag he asked, "What about you? You have a good time?"

Tony grinned. "You know me. I'm always havin' a good time."

Lucas laughed again. "Right." After a few days out of the older man's company he had to admit it was good to see him. As resistant as he had been at first to the idea of building any sort of relationship with the ex-convict he was glad that he had. Tony had become a good friend and someone he trusted a great deal. There was no denying that the Seaman had impressed the Captain either, and just about everyone else. Surprised, too. They had all expected the worst and even though he _was_ rough around the edges they had ended up gaining a valuable member of the crew, someone who pretty much always had his heart in the right place, not to mention a quick study. Lucas had seen with his own eyes just how swiftly Tony could pick up new skills, and on a vessel like _seaQuest_ an ability like that certainly wouldn't go to waste. It had already served him well.

"Listen, I'll catch you later, Luke. We can grab a bite to eat and you can tell me all the borin' details of your upgrades or whatever."

"And you can tell me exactly what I missed out on."

"You got yourself a deal, kid." And with that Tony was turning away and throwing one arm in the air in a swift wave even as he headed off, his duffel slung over his shoulder. Lucas watched him go for several seconds and then turned back to the mag-lev just in time for the doors to reopen. He had missed the first car while talking to Tony.

Even though he had had every intention of heading to the Captain's quarters to see if he could catch up with Bridger, Lucas found himself making his way to sea deck instead. No part of the boat was uninhabited but the closer he got to his destination the less people he saw and once he got to the moon pool he was pleased to see that there was next to no one else around. He was free to walk right up to the edge of the pool, snagging the vocorder from its bracket on the closest pillar and flicking it on as he braced his weight against the lip of the tank. After tapping a few buttons he looked into the water, searching for any familiar disturbances. "Darwin?" A moment passed. "Darwin, you there?"

It didn't take long. There was a splash, the tell-tale sound of a blowhole being cleared, and then the dolphin's form could be clearly seen bobbing through the water towards him. Lucas smiled and set the vocorder down to one side, reaching into the water before his friend had even come close enough to touch. "Hey, buddy. How's it going?"

"Darwin good." He bobbed his head enthusiastically as Lucas rubbed him. "Darwin hunt and swim."

No change from the norm there, but it was just good to hear that the dolphin was happy and healthy.

"Lucas play?"

"Not right now, Darwin." Even as he said that he continued to rub the dolphin's melon and beak. "Maybe later?"

Darwin bobbed with increased enthusiasm. "Lucas play later."

He smiled. "Have you seen Bridger?" He knew that if anyone had it would be Darwin. Odds were they had spent most of their leave in close proximity to one another.

"Bridger on bridge. Bridger working."

Lucas wasn't surprised to hear that. The Captain was probably making sure everything was in order for the _seaQuest_ to ship out again, overseeing preparations personally so he knew exactly what was going on without having to hear it from anyone else. Darwin had probably been watching from his tank up there but had come down to the moon pool when he was called. "Thanks, Darwin." He gave the dolphin one last firm rub and then straightened. "I'll come and play later."

Darwin splashed his tail happily and took Lucas' words as his cue to turn and head off, most likely to do the rounds of the boat and check up on what was going on. Lucas headed off as well before the dolphin was even out of sight.

He made his way through the boat with ease, catching sight of more familiar faces on his way through the corridors and passages as people got themselves stowed away and reoriented. Everyone looked distracted by one task or another, whether it was discussing something about their leave with a companion or scooping up bags and other personal possessions and so Lucas didn't even pause to try and interact with anyone, making short work of heading up to the bridge to find the Captain exactly where their resident cetacean had said he would be. As he passed through the open clamshell doors he saw the boat's commanding officer at his station, though he was bent over the display rather than occupying the chair itself.

"Hey, Captain," he said as he made his way across the space between them. "How was your leave?"

"Lucas." Bridger sounded surprised to see him, but not unpleasantly so. He obviously hadn't realised he had company. "Honestly? I'm glad to be back." He gave a slightly self-reproaching chuckle as he admitted, "I hardly know what to do with myself in my own time anymore." With a sigh he added, "Don't tell anyone else I said that." He paused and then amended once more, "_Especially_ Doctor Smith."

It was Lucas' turn to chuckle. "No problem." With his hands shoved back into his pockets he indicated the Captain's station with a bob of his head. "Everything okay?"

"Of course." Bridger offered the console a non-committal wave and turned a smile in Lucas' direction. "I was just making sure they didn't make any pointless changes while I was gone."

"Well, if they were going to make any changes I doubt they would be pointless," Lucas said as he tilted his head contemplatively. "There are always upgrades and modifications that can or should be made to any number of the boat's systems, which—"

Bridger was waving his hands. "All right, all right." But he was laughing as he said it, shaking his head fondly. "Still," he persisted, turning his hands palm up as if in a request for Lucas to concede to the point he went on to make, "it doesn't hurt to check that I know how things work on my boat."

Lucas hunched his shoulders a little with another tilt of his head before he gave a crooked smirk and nodded. "Yeah, good point." Taking one hand from his pocket he jabbed a finger at the console. "You want me to take a quick look?"

Bridger waved at the thing again. "Go ahead. God knows you'll be able to figure it out a lot quicker than I ever could."

Or just about anyone else, for that matter, they both knew, and Lucas could tell as much from the glint in Bridger's eye not to mention the knowing quality to his smile. He showed a grin before he hopped up into the seat and quickly got to work, punching in keystrokes in rapid-fire sequences to run diagnostics on all available systems whilst simultaneously searching for any updates or patches that had been installed while the crew were enjoying leave. He thought it unlikely that anyone would have done anything of the sort without at least notifying him, considering his position on board, but it really didn't hurt to check. If nothing else it gave him something constructive to do. Lucas felt Bridger hovering nearby, watching in respectful silence as he worked. He couldn't help but smile, actually enjoying the feeling of the Captain standing there looking on, letting him get on with it and trusting him to get the job done.

Too many people wrote him off as just another kid, a brilliantly clever and creative one granted but a kid all the same, someone who was far too young to have any real responsibility or understanding of the big picture. But not Bridger. Never Bridger. Not since the first days of their time together on the _seaQuest_, at least, and a lot had happened since then. Captain Bridger knew what Lucas was capable of, he knew what he could do and never underestimated or undermined him, and gave him the sort of trust and encouragement that no other adult ever had. That meant more to Lucas than he had ever been able to put into words.

As the computer ran through all the available data in order to deliver the results he cast a glance back at the older man just behind him and smiled quietly to himself.

It was good to be home.

* * *

Tim liked things a certain way. A lot of people said that he was fussy, particular, too focused on what most would see as meaningless little details, but in Tim's mind it all made sense. There was a layout, an order, a routine and a rhythm, and what was so wrong about not wanting those things to be disturbed? It was reassuring to him to know what was happening and when, to know that everything was as it should be, in its proper place, just so, and honestly the less surprises there were in his day-to-day life the better. Things on board _seaQuest_ were often so unpredictable and at times even fantastical, and so having a firm grip on everything else in his life was comforting to him. It helped him to focus and get his job done.

As much as he liked the chance to take a break like anyone else on the crew, he couldn't deny that leaving the boat and then coming back and getting himself resettled could be a little stressful. It had taken him an hour to get all his possessions back in their proper places and for a few moments he stood in the middle of his quarters looking this way and that, making sure nothing looked out of place. Only when he was absolutely certain that nothing was missing or askew did he give a satisfied nod and step out into the corridor. They didn't ship out until that afternoon but he wanted to run through his systems up on the bridge and make sure everything was as it should be.

Jim was passing as he stepped out of his quarters and closed the hatch behind him and the Security Officer gave him an easy smile even as he said, "You heading up?" It was obvious he was referring to the bridge, literally pointing briefly upward as he asked the question.

Tim's initial response was a nod and it was as they got underway that he gathered his voice to ask, "So how did the rest of your night go? Did you all make it back in one piece?" Mostly he was curious as to whether Piccolo had gotten himself into any of his usual, particular brand of mischief. Jim wouldn't shy away from telling any such stories, he knew, and neither would Miguel.

"Believe it or not," Jim said, "we _did_. Piccolo even managed to get a girl's number. He was _very _pleased with himself." Something about the look on the other man's face told Tim that Piccolo hadn't been the only one to get a number. In fact, something about the Lieutenant's expression suggested he had managed to get _more_ than one. He managed to summon a smile, wanting to at least look happy for his shipmates, even though he couldn't deny the slightest flicker of envy in regards to the ease with which every other man on board seemed to be able to do such a thing.

Well, with the exception of Dagwood, perhaps, but their resident GELF wasn't really interested in that sort of thing anyway.

"I think Ortiz had us all beat though," Jim went on, shaking his head even as they reached the staircase to head up. "He never even made it back inside the bar after you guys left."

Tim frowned. "Really?" He ascended the stairs after his fellow officer, waiting until they were at the top to ask, "He didn't come back with you guys?"

"Nope. We didn't see him for the rest of the night." Jim seemed to realise he was walking a little ahead of his companion and slowed his pace enough for the two to be walking side by side again. "Apparently he took off with some woman he met outside." Catching sight of Tim's frown, the Security Officer gave him a slight nudge with one elbow as they walked. "Take it easy, O'Neill. It's just a one night stand." Something about Jim's face suggested he might have been on the verge of making a lighthearted remark about whether or not Tim had ever had one but then he obviously thought better of it and closed his mouth. Thankfully. "I bet he's already on the bridge."

But when they passed through the clamshell doors there was no trace of the Sensor Chief. Tim cast his gaze to the opposite side of the bridge just in case Miguel was working on something on that platform instead but there was no sign of him there either. Captain Bridger spotted the officers' entry and gave them both a nod and a smile. "Gentlemen," he greeted. "Welcome back."

"Thank you, sir," Jim returned with his usual easy confidence and a quick salute, giving Lucas a friendly clap on the shoulder as he passed the teenager working away at the Captain's console. "Good to be back." He dropped himself down at the attack board and set to work on getting up to speed with any notifications on its monitor.

Tim didn't even realise he had come to a standstill until the Captain spoke to him again. "Everything all right, Lieutenant?"

"Hm?" He blinked. "Oh." With first a shake and then a nod of his head he said, "Yes, sir, thank you." With another glance up at the sensor station he made his way to his own seat, asking as he did so, "Has anyone seen Ortiz yet this morning?"

Jim cast him a look from his seat, giving his head the smallest shake before turning his attention back down to his updates.

"He wasn't down in the bay when I was coming in," Lucas reported without even needing to take his eyes from the screen in front of him, his hands moving briskly over the keyboard.

Bridger shook his head as well, saying, "Not yet, but I'm sure he'll be along soon." With a furrow forming in his brow he asked, "Why do you ask?"

Before the Security Officer could pipe up and make him sound even more irrational than he already felt Tim said, "No reason, sir. I just thought he'd already be here." He gave the Captain a smile and then dropped his eyes to his station, trying to look nonplussed even as he told himself he probably _was_ being ridiculous. But didn't he have the right to be worried? After what had happened to _him_ not so long ago it was never far from his mind these days just how vulnerable any one of them could be if they were caught off guard, and alone at that. Maybe that made him paranoid, Tim was well aware that that was probably the case, but unlike just about everyone else on board the _seaQuest_ he had never been able to figure out just how to shut off his worries and concerns at the drop of a hat.

He would feel better when Miguel showed up, he knew, and took his place up on the platform. Everything would be as it should be then, just so, and it would put his mind at ease. Until then, he didn't think it was so bad to worry.

* * *

Just about every individual was accounted for now, with only a few exceptions. Lifting one arm and turning it a little Jonathan glanced at his watch, even as he heard the approach of another returnee. He didn't lift his dark eyes from his watch until the individual was fully in view and when he did he was ready to say, "Three minutes to spare, Ortiz. You're cutting it awfully close."

He wasn't surprised to see a calm and borderline cheeky smile cross the other man's face before he said, "But I _am_ on time, Commander." Cocking his head a little, even as he reached up and snagged off his hat, Ortiz went on, "I thought we didn't ship out 'til this afternoon."

"We don't." Jonathan fixed the Sensor Chief with a level stare. "But that doesn't mean there isn't a lot to do before then. You know that as well as anybody."

Ortiz's chuckle was light and easy. "Yeah, yeah." He shoved his hat in the duffel slung over his shoulder as he glanced around. "Am I one of the last ones back?" Jonathan let the other man read the answer in his facial expression, such as it was. "Right." Another smile. "I'll see you on the bridge, Commander."

"Don't be late," Jonathan called after him as the other man headed off, his pace casual but purposeful at the same time. In the time between the destruction of the first _seaQuest_ and the completion of her replacement the Sensor Chief had well and truly come out of his shell. Jonathan remembered when the other man had often so effortlessly blended into the background of bridge operations, save of course for when he was called upon to relay important information. Nowadays Ortiz was a bold and unmistakable presence on the bridge, impossible to overlook or write off as anything but vital. Not that there was anything wrong with that change, obviously, quite the opposite in fact, but it was still a fairly stark contrast for anyone who had served aboard the first _seaQuest_.

With the smallest shake of his head he glanced down at the clipboard he was carrying, skimming the lists it housed once again, before the sound of more footsteps approaching brought his attention back up. He was ready and poised to give the two individuals a scrutinising and slightly disapproving stare when they came into view, and Jonathan couldn't deny the smallest rush of satisfaction he felt at the sheepish apologies and bowed heads they offered in return. They quickly hurried off, well and truly cowed, and the First Officer allowed himself the briefest smirk of amusement before he confirmed with a glance at his clipboard that all personnel were finally accounted for.

He didn't hang around after that, heading out of the bay and making a beeline for the bridge to report the news to the Captain.

* * *

Jim was just finishing clearing the attack board's screen of various notifications and update alerts when he heard more footsteps passing through the still-open clamshell doors at the rear of the bridge. Turning his head he was greeted with the sight of Commander Ford joining them, his pace purposeful and composed as always. The small nod that the other man gave him as he approached told Jim to maintain his position as opposed to surrendering it as he had been about to, and with a dip of his own chin he settled himself a little more comfortably in order to man the station properly.

They didn't ship out for a few more hours but there was always some way to pass the time in an official capacity. Jim would keep himself occupied one way or another.

"Okay, Captain," Lucas said as he deftly tapped a few keys with a sense of satisfied finality. As he stood from the seat and cleared it for Bridger he offered the older man a smile as he continued, "I ran a full diagnostic on all systems and compiled all the necessary data about the various updates and maintenance reports into a single file for you." With a nod at the screen he obviously indicated said file, which Jim assumed the teenager had left open for Bridger to access easily.

The Captain lifted his brows a little and gave the faintest hint of a smile. "Thank you very much, Lucas," he said, not without a thread of amusement. Glancing at Ford and then Jim he added, "That certainly makes things easier for me."

Lucas smirked. "Always happy to help, sir."

It was as he was chuckling at the exchange that Jim caught sight of another pair of arrivals passing through the clamshell doors and with little more than a glance he confirmed their identities before he turned his head to lock gazes with O'Neill. When the Communications Officer gave him a blank look in return Jim jerked his head to direct the other man's attention in the right direction. As he watched O'Neill followed the gesture and Jim could have sworn he saw the slightest flush of colour sweep across the other man's face before he straightened in his seat once again. When their eyes met again Jim was ready with an _I told you so_ expression.

Ortiz made short work of mounting the starboard platform in order to take his station even as Henderson continued right on past the main command console on her way to the helm. She offered those collected around it a pleasant smile as she passed, one which Jim was only too happy to return.

"All personnel are present and accounted for, Captain," Ford said then, glancing up towards Ortiz who offered the Commander a fleeting smirk, an expression that Jim made a mental note to ask more about later.

"Good." Bridger settled himself into his seat, sounding pleased by the update. "At this rate we'll be able to set out early for a change." That earned the Captain a round of low laughter from the men and women gathered. "Until then," the man went on, "you know what to do, ladies and gentlemen. Let's make sure she's ready to go when they give us the green light."

"Yes, sir." Jim wasn't the only one to speak those words aloud but he took the smallest amount of pride in the fact that his voice was one of, if not _the_ loudest. If he didn't know better he could have sworn he caught the tail end of Ford rolling his eyes, which only made Jim's smile that much wider before he got right back to work.

* * *

They got their green light of approval for departure roughly thirty-five minutes ahead of schedule. All inventory and supplies were properly stowed and secured, all personnel both military and scientific were present and accounted for, and everything was as it should be. There was no reason for the UEO to keep them in port any longer than was absolutely necessary, and personally Nathan couldn't have been happier when the approval was relayed to him by O'Neill.

Without any delay he gave the order to set out from New Cape Quest and set a course for the North Atlantic Ocean, specifically the northernmost region where they would be assisting with the repair and resupply on a mining station that was having problems with its oxygen and filtration systems. The appropriate personnel were already brushing up on the schematics for the station and learning what they could about the list of issues ahead of time, and Nathan was confident that by the time they arrived those individuals would be more than ready to fix whatever had gone wrong.

All around him the bridge crew worked busily and efficiently and Nathan allowed himself a moment to take it all in, looking around at the various stations in turn as they gave updates on their systems. From the helm Henderson announced when they were clear of the port and heading into open waters, and from the starboard platform Ortiz followed up the statement with one of his own. "Deploying WSKRS." After striking a series of keys and glancing between his monitors the Chief went on to report, "All clear on sensors."

"Good." Nathan nodded his head slowly. "Let's hope it stays that way." Even as he said the words he knew it was unlikely that that would be the case, but it didn't hurt to hope. Whatever happened the _seaQuest_ and her crew would face it head on, just as they always did, and if their past performance was any indication then they would come out on top and in one piece, at least more or less. "Helm, all ahead full."

"Aye, sir. All ahead full." Henderson's voice was clear and calm as she confirmed the order and before long Nathan could feel the familiar and comforting hum of _seaQuest_'s engines powering them through the waters on the way to their destination.

He couldn't help but smile.

* * *

She had considered heading up to the bridge for their launch but she had been reluctant to step away from the process of cataloguing and sorting the inventory from their recent resupply. She hadn't wanted to lose her place amidst the vials and boxes and containers and by the time she was done crossing the Ts and dotting the Is she was glad that she had stuck with it. Having to start over on such a necessary but laborious task would have been a nightmare, and it was one she was glad to have finished and out of the way. With a glance around at med bay and the fully stocked cabinets, cupboards, and lockers she gave a nod of her head and smiled in satisfaction.

Now that the busywork was out of the way she saw no reason not to check in on the bridge, if only to reacquaint herself with the feel of the place and the people who called it home for months at a time. As the crew had been returning she had felt the energies on the ship change accordingly, filling out and growing increasingly more complex with every returning individual. There were some that stood out to her in particular, those with which she was most familiar and comfortable, and the returning presence of them had brought a small smile to her face each time. Some had been louder than others, as was so often the case, such as Tony and Brody, men who were bold and confident and not easily overlooked, where others were subtler and softer, like Ford and O'Neill.

Wendy didn't make a habit of actively seeking out any individuals who didn't register on their own though. In her mind that was close to crossing the line that she had drawn in the sand years ago, one that she had never been comfortable even so much as brushing up against. Reading people without their permission was not something she liked to do unless there was absolutely no other avenue open to her, and even then it left a dirty feeling in its wake, like a stain she couldn't wash away.

So she wasn't concerned when she didn't pick up on every single one of those she had come to call friends among the crew. As she passed through the _seaQuest_ she assured herself that all was well as she saw people milling around purposefully, going about their business calmly and with certainty. When she reached the bridge she found the doors open and took that as an indication that her presence would not be an intrusion, but she was still cautious as she stepped over the threshold into the main command centre.

Her mind was set completely at ease as she looked around at all of the stations and saw the familiar faces just where she expected them to be. O'Neill, Brody, Ford, and Nathan were close together at the bridge's centre, and ahead of them she could make out Henderson in one of the helm positions. To her right she was easily able to catch sight of Ortiz and Lucas at neighbouring stations, both of them busying themselves with one task or another.

Everything felt busy, and reassuringly so. There was a steady focus and drive from all sides that Wendy had come to associate with the bridge and she found herself letting out a slow breath, feeling that much more relaxed afterwards. Had she been tense beforehand? Not that she had noticed, but that must have been the case, she knew. That was probably foolish, an unnecessary and unconscious concern, but she was just as susceptible to unwelcome emotions as anyone else, if not _more_ so because of her psychic abilities.

It was then that Nathan turned and saw her, greeting her almost instantly. "Doctor Smith. To what do we owe the pleasure?" Those who hadn't already noticed her arrival glanced her way briefly, several of them offering her friendly smiles before going back to their work.

"Nothing in particular," she told the Captain as she moved up to his side, coming to a stop more or less opposite Commander Ford who went on to look over Brody's shoulder at something on his screen. The two men entered into a discussion at a low volume but Wendy couldn't sense any concern or displeasure from either of them so she turned her attention back to Nathan. "I just thought I would come and check in."

"Oh?" Nathan looked amused, but there was no hint of teasing or derision there. Wendy smiled back at him even as he went on to say, "Well, so far, so good. We won't reach our destination for a while yet—"

"So long as nothing comes up on the way," she interjected smoothly, loosely linking her hands at the small of her back and glancing ahead to the main viewer even though there was nothing of particular interest on show at that moment.

She sensed a brief flicker of further amusement from Nathan as he conceded to her point. "So long as nothing comes up on the way, yes." Their eyes met for a moment. "Are you hoping for some excitement, Doctor?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that," she returned with a fleeting frown and a shake of her head. "I like the quiet."

Nathan was looking her way when she turned her head. He smiled at her as he said, "You and me both."


	4. Curiosities

When the chance for a break rolled around Miguel didn't hesitate to take it, knowing better than most just how unpredictable things could be in their line of work and just how grateful they needed to be to get time to grab something to eat and drink. There had been times in the past when the bridge crew in particular had gone several hours without any sort of breather because of one crisis situation or another. If there was both the time and the opportunity to take a break then it was wise to just _take_ it. Miguel knew better than to waste those chances.

He hadn't been in the galley more than five minutes when it became clear that he wasn't the only member of the bridge crew who had seized the same opportunity. He had more than made a start on his lunch by the time Tim headed over to his table and quirked his brows in that silently questioning way that Miguel knew meant he was waiting for permission to sit down. With a smile and a chuckle after he'd swallowed his mouthful of food Miguel used the toe of his boot to nudge out the chair to his left. Tim smiled, a little sheepishly, and took the offered seat.

At the sight of Miguel's lingering smile Tim said, "I never like to assume."

"Hey," Miguel returned, "I didn't say a word."

Tim's eyes narrowed a little. "You didn't have to."

That was true enough, given how long they had worked together. They had both been stationed on the original _seaQuest_ back when Captain Stark had been in charge, as disastrous as that had ended up being, and they had been through a lot together since then. It was no secret that the two of them were close, that each thought of the other as their best friend on the submarine, and if _anyone_ was able to guess at what he was thinking or feeling at any given moment in time it was Tim O'Neill. Likewise Miguel always had an easy time figuring out what was on the other man's mind just from a single glance at his expression, or from his posture.

Right then he could tell that there was something Tim wanted to talk about, some subject he wanted to broach, but he was biting his tongue, probably because he didn't want to pry or risk crossing some kind of line.

Before Miguel could try to get it out of him Brody and Piccolo helped themselves to the table's other two seats, setting their trays down boldly and making themselves right at home. "So," Piccolo began without any sort of preamble, "you gonna tell us about it or what?" He looked to Brody at his side. "We gotta play twenty question or somethin'?"

Jim's brows rose curiously and he didn't even try to hide the fact that he was staring at Miguel. Waiting. And not so patiently.

It was obvious what they were wanting from him and Miguel had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. "You guys are terrible," he said as he skewered some of the vegetables on his plate, "you know that?"

Piccolo jabbed a hand at his own chest. "_We're_ terrible?" The incredulity in his voice was obvious. "We're not the ones who took off with some broad he didn't even know without tellin' his pals." He glanced at Brody for agreement, receiving it in the form of a firm nod.

Miguel frowned at Tony across the table, well aware of the fact that Tim was silently watching the exchange with keen interest. "And how many times have _you_ done it?"

Tony was fazed for only a moment before he regained his composure. "That's different."

"Why?"

"Because it is!"

"But why?"

With a snort Tony shook his head and waved his hands. "Because I'm Tony Piccolo, irresponsible ex-con who usually don't think before he acts."

Miguel wasn't the only one to smile at the other man's description of himself.

"My point is," he went on, "it ain't like you to take off without sayin' nothin'." He propped his crossed arms on the table and leaned forward. "_So_," he prompted again, with more emphasis, "you gonna tell us about it, or _what_?" He started to smile, the expression starting at one corner of his mouth and growing steadily larger. "She must've been pretty hot if she had you forgettin' your manners."

Miguel chuckled at that, shaking his head. "I think you're getting me confused with O'Neill." The man in question turned a frown in his direction. Miguel met his gaze. "How long have we known each other? And you _still_ ask if you can sit with me at lunch."

"Because I'm _polite_." Tim tried not to sound offended but he only did a half-decent job at masking it.

Offering his best friend a smile Miguel said, "That's my point." He looked back across at Piccolo. "I'm not giving you any details, Tony." He went back to his food.

"Oh come on, Miguel." Brody sounded a little like a child who desperately wanted something he had been told repeatedly he wasn't going to get. "We're not asking for a step-by-step or anything like that, but—" He cocked his head a little from side to side. "You know." He shrugged. "What was she like?"

Tim actually joined the cross-examination at that point. "What was her name?"

"Name? What's it matter what her name was? He ain't never gonna see her again."

Tim fixed Piccolo with a disapproving glare. "You don't learn names?"

The smirk and shrug Tony offered in response spoke volumes. Tim frowned and grimaced a little, obviously not amused or impressed.

"Her name was Sasha," Miguel finally relented when it seemed like the other men at the table were only going to start squabbling about etiquette if he didn't offer them _something_. "And she was—" he paused as he finished skewering more food onto his fork, "—very attractive." He lifted his eyes to Piccolo and gave the other man a smile before popping the food into his mouth.

"_Very attractive_?" Tony echoed, almost as if the words were foreign to him. Turning to Brody he asked with no small amount of despair, "Why can't he just say she was hot?"

O'Neill picked up the bread roll on his tray and tore a chunk from one edge. "Because hot is a temperature, Tony."

Piccolo smirked and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Exactly."

Miguel stepped in again before they could start bickering about terminology instead. "Okay, look." He set down his fork and picked up his cup instead. "She was nice, and she was attractive, and we hit it off. We got to talking and then—" in the brief pause Tony saw fit to chuckle suggestively, "—and then we headed back to her place—" he fixed Piccolo with a stare to cut him off before he could interject with anything inappropriate, "—and the rest is none of your business."

But that seemed to be enough for Tony's imagination to start running away with him because even as he started to attack his lunch with enthusiasm he was smirking and chuckling to himself, casting occasional knowing glances in Miguel's direction. He let the other man amuse himself with whatever his brain was conjuring because it would have taken more effort than it was worth to try and dissuade him, and if nothing else it had taken the edge off his companions' burning curiosity about his activities the night before.

Piccolo was right about one thing, though, in that it wasn't really like him to take off without saying a word. It wasn't really in his nature to let his friends worry about him unduly and he would have to remember to apologise to Tony and Jim later, once things had settled down a little and their minds weren't just fixated on how he had spent the rest of his evening out of their company. His absence hadn't caused any panic, he knew, since no one had been searching for him or asking him if he was all right when he arrived back at the boat that morning, but it was still inconsiderate.

A glance at Tim showed that at least _one_ person had been worried, and he felt a flash of regret. Or maybe guilt was a more accurate description. Of course his best friend would have worried, even though he probably hadn't known anything about it until hours later, probably after hearing it from one of the other two men at the table, but between that moment and his safe arrival on the bridge there would have been plenty of time for O'Neill to be concerned.

Next time, if there _was_ a next time, he would have to be more careful.

* * *

The rest of lunch had passed without much of a fuss and as a group the four men had headed back up to the bridge. Piccolo had a shift at the helm, he had seen fit to tell them, and Miguel had noticed with a subtle smile that the other man had attempted to sound put out by the fact when in reality it was pretty easy to tell that he was anything but. Anyone who had gotten to know the man could see that he had grown to like life aboard _seaQuest_, that the growing responsibilities and trust being granted to him by those up the chain of command meant a lot more to him than he would ever let on.

He might not have chosen to be here, but Tony Piccolo was truly one of the crew by now, at least as far as Miguel was concerned. Seeing the way the shorter man interacted with all those around him told him that he wasn't the only one who thought so either, and he only hoped that Tony could see it as well.

When they reached the bridge they were greeted by the sight of a familiar large figure just inside the open doors, trusty mop in hand. Dagwood was sweeping the tool from one side to the other with the smooth and methodical calmness that he usually exuded when he was working, and he didn't even so much as look up at the sound of their approach.

"Hey, Dag!" Piccolo wasn't shy about raising his voice to announce their arrival, attracting the GELF's attention effortlessly. "How's it hangin'?"

Dagwood's brow furrowed and he looked down, obviously trying to figure out what Tony was referring to. The hand not holding his mop touched to the red cloth that was usually hanging from his jumpsuit's belt and he lifted his gaze back to Tony with his brows quirked upward.

"Nah, it's just a figure o' speech, Dag," the Seaman told him as they came up close, patting the GELF on the upper arm. "It's like _what's up_, or _how's tricks_, y'know?"

Tim rolled his eyes, and none too discreetly. "He's asking you how you are, Dagwood."

"Oh, okay, thank you, Tim." Dagwood gave the Communications Officer a shy smile of gratitude. "I'm good." He gave a nod and then adopted a thoughtful expression. "How is it hanging with _you_?"

Piccolo stood looking up at the other man for several seconds before he stammered a little and then muttered an affirmative under his breath and moved on past to enter the bridge properly. At Dagwood's puzzled expression Miguel chuckled good-naturedly and gave the GELF a pat on the arm as well. "He's good, Dagwood. We're all good."

Dagwood smiled. "Good," he said, sounding happier about that than he did about his own well-being. He looked between the three men, made a low hum of fond approval with one of his usual childlike smiles, and then dutifully stepped aside to let them pass so they could return to their stations.

Brody wasted no time in heading off to catch up on anything he might have missed in the relatively short time that they had been gone, but Miguel reached out and caught Tim's arm before his friend could do the same. "Hey," he said, his voice low as Tim came close again, looking at him uncertainly. "Sorry if I worried you," he went on, tipping his head to one side. "Earlier, I mean." When his friend still didn't say anything he added, "I'm guessing you heard about me taking off from Brody or Piccolo."

"Oh." Tim shook his head, needlessly adjusting his glasses. "No, I—I mean I wasn't—"

Miguel gave him a warm smile. "It's okay. I get it." His expression sobered as he said, "I should've told someone. I wasn't thinking." At least not with the right part of his brain. "I just wanted to apologise."

It was Tim's turn to smile, after a few more moments spent considering his options. "You don't have to apologise. I shouldn't be so paranoid." He let out a little chuckle, quiet and self-deprecating. "I know you can take care of yourself."

Another smile crossed Miguel's face. "Still," he said, conceding to the point his friend had made but not wanting to just shrug it off either. "I'm sorry." He paused and then added, "And thanks." At Tim's puzzled expression he clarified, "For caring enough to _be_ worried." And with that he clapped his friend lightly on the arm and headed on up to his station, giving the young woman who had covered him a grateful bob of his head as she vacated his seat.

From up on the platform he watched Tim flounder for a moment before smiling quietly to himself and heading on over to his own station. He entered into a short and hushed conversation with his cover before taking the seat and getting right back to work as if he had never left.

As Miguel replaced his headset and took a moment to position it properly he heard Lucas' voice from his right. "Brody and Piccolo gave you the third degree, huh?"

With a chuckle he nodded his head. "You could say that." He took a moment to give his screens his full attention, checking the readings being relayed by the three WSKRS outside and confirming quickly that nothing had changed in any sort of negative or concerning way since he had headed off to grab some lunch. "Word travels fast," he said afterwards, glancing towards the teenager who let out a laugh of his own.

"This is _seaQuest_," was his response, and he looked Miguel's way with amusement on his face. "No one can keep a secret around here."

Wasn't that the truth? They had all experienced first-hand just how quickly news travelled on the boat, regardless of whether or not the subject of said gossip wanted that word to travel.

"Don't worry," Lucas went on, pausing briefly in his work to meet Miguel's gaze, "I won't ask for any of the juicy details."

Miguel laughed and nodded. "I appreciate that."

Lucas paused and cocked his head a little to first one side and then the other. "I mean if you want to _tell_ me, that's entirely different." He grinned.

With another laugh Miguel shook his head instead, recognising that there was no need to respond further as the teenager to his right settled back into his work with an easy smile on his face. For just a moment he watched the young man before returning his own attention to his screens.

That wouldn't be the last he heard about his little excursion on the last night of leave, he knew. As Lucas had said there was no way to keep a secret on _seaQuest_. One way or another things got out and got around and there was no stopping that tide of information once it had picked up that first little bit of momentum. No matter how hard anyone tried to keep a lid on something they didn't want known it always came to light somehow. Sooner or later everything came out into the open.

As Miguel sat there and let that thought percolate in his mind he became steadily and silently aware of the fact that he was a little more discomforted by that fact than he had assumed he would be. Because he didn't want to share the previous night with anyone else? Not because he was shy or because he was ashamed. Because he wanted to maintain a little mystery? No, that was ridiculous.

So what then? Why?

His gaze wandered over the bridge, and he frowned quietly to himself. He couldn't figure it out. He just knew that it was a fact, an undeniable and inescapable one, and the longer he sat there with it weighing on his mind the more certain of it he became.

* * *

By the time the _seaQuest_ reached its destination everyone had settled back into their roles as if they had never left, everything working smoothly without so much as a hitch. Regular updates were communicated to Captain Bridger, who accepted them with nods of approval and simple acknowledgements before everyone carried right on with their work. When they were within range of the mining station the team selected for the mission headed for the launch, ensuring they had everything they would need to assess the situation and make a proper start on their repairs.

Lonnie was walking at Miguel's right as they made their way to the launch bay where the rest of the team would be double checking and loading the gear. She was watching him in what she obviously thought was a subtle fashion as they walked but Miguel was almost instantly aware of the attention. He let it slide for a couple of minutes as they walked before he finally turned his head and raised his brows. "You're staring," he told her.

She gave a little laugh. "I—sorry." She waved her hands with a small shake of her head. "It's none of my business."

_Here we go_. Stifling a sigh he turned his head to her again. "You too?" he asked her, already knowing the answer.

"I'm just surprised," she said. "That's all."

"Surprised?"

At that point Lonnie seemed to realise she had put her foot in it, that she had inadvertently implied that it wasn't like him to take off with some woman he hardly knew. Did she think that was something only Piccolo or Brody did? But instead of saying anything further he just watched her, easily twisting his body out of the way of a crewman coming in the other direction carrying a large case in both hands.

"I mean—" Closing her mouth again Lonnie shook her head once more. "Like I said, it's none of my business."

Miguel was quiet for a few moments as they came up on the launch bay. It would have been easy to shrug it off, tell her it was no big deal, or he just as easily could have sated her curiosity and told her the exact same story he had given to the guys in the galley, but he did neither. Instead he gave his head a small tilt and simply said, "Right." When he glanced to his side he saw the surprise flash over his companion's face but before she could offer any kind of response he broke off and made his way directly to the launch they would be taking over to the station.

It was almost a full minute later that Henderson boarded the launch herself, staying quiet as she moved up to the helm and took the other seat. Miguel glanced at her, able to tell from the tight line of her jaw and the way her eyes remained fixed straight ahead that she was upset, or at the very least dejected by him shutting her down so bluntly. When she spoke it was professionally and firmly, announcing their departure from the bay and their travel time to the station's docking port.

Not once did she look his way on the short journey.

Maybe he should have felt guilty about that, for being so brusque, for not indulging her even a little, but he had realised after talking with Lucas that there was only so much curiosity and intrigue he could tolerate about what should have been his own personal business. If he wanted to give anyone any details then he would offer them. It really should have been as simple as that. He had given Tim, Piccolo, and Brody all the details he was happy to give and everything else? That was just for him. What was so wrong about that?

From the look on Henderson's face as she rose from her seat once the launch had docked, the answer to that question was _a_ _lot_.

With a shake of his head Miguel vacated his own seat, reaching out a hand to take one of the cases with him as he went, joining the others in the station's rather compact docking bay and taking a look around. It was fairly standard, with the expected amount of exposed piping and metal grating, panels with switches and buttons and lights dotted around controlling any number of functions. At the other end of the bay he could see an open hatchway through which a group of station workers passed in order to greet the new arrivals.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," said a middle-aged man at their head, brushing his hands off on his overalls as he approached. There was a smear of something dark and a little gritty across one side of his face but no one saw fit to point it out as he reached them and swept his grey eyes over the group. "I'm Dan Hockler, Head of Operations here at the Renford Station. Thank you all for coming."

Miguel reached out a hand, and shook the other man's when it was extended in return. "Miguel Ortiz," he offered, leaving out his rank and title because it always felt stuffy and awkward to throw it out there. "We're happy to help any way that we can." He indicated the team with him with a motion of his head. "We've brought diagnostic equipment and just about every tool you can think of, so we should be able to take care of whatever's going on."

Hockler seemed happy to hear that, smiling eagerly, taking Henderson's hand when she reached forward to offer it. "Lonnie Henderson." She gave him a smile in return. "If you want to lead the way to the affected systems, we can get started right away."

"Excellent. Of course." Hockler nodded enthusiastically and turned to a younger man just behind him, instructing him to do just that. Turning back to Miguel he asked, a little hesitantly, "And our other request?"

With a smile and a chuckle Miguel gave the man a nod. "We'll have the supplies brought over as soon as the repairs are complete," he told the man, who looked satisfied by the explanation. "Speaking of which," he went on with a glance over his shoulder at the few team members left, "we'd better get to work."

The other man laughed and nodded again. "Follow me." With that he turned and headed off in the wake of the other group who had already departed the bay.

* * *

As assignments went it was a run-of-the-mill, and frankly, somewhat dull affair. There wasn't much for those left behind to do but wait for the team on the station to do their work, and Nathan had no doubt that the first traces of boredom had begun to creep into the thoughts of more than a few of the crew stationed on the bridge. They would continue to do their jobs, naturally, but he knew from experience just how tedious staring at the same readouts could be after your brain had already absorbed all the information available.

Unlike everyone else on the bridge, however, Nathan had the luxury of excusing himself as and when he saw fit and retiring to his ready room, and that was exactly what he had done a little after the first hour of repairs had passed. While in the privacy of his ready room he could answer messages both personal and professional, and read over a variety of reports and news stories that he believed would be of relevance to their work on _seaQuest_.

He was in the middle of reading just such a report on the advances of technology intended to improve pollution control and eradication when a call came through from the bridge. Reluctant though he was to take his eyes from the words in front of him he managed to do so, answering the call and prompting the face of Lieutenant O'Neill to appear on the nearby screen. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

"Sorry to disturb you, Captain," O'Neill began, sounding genuinely apologetic. "We just received word from the repair team on the station. Apparently the damage wasn't as bad as we were led to believe it would be, and they estimate they'll be finished within the next hour."

Nathan glanced at his watch. "That soon?"

"Yes, sir. They didn't go into any details about what the faults were, but I can ask if you—"

"No, no, that's all right." Nathan shook his head. "Tell them we'll have the supply launch ready to depart as soon as they're back on board. Keep me informed, Lieutenant."

"Aye, sir." And with that the call disconnected, leaving Nathan to sit back in his seat and let out a quiet sigh.

Perhaps run-of-the-mill had been an understatement. They would be on their way a lot sooner than expected, that was for sure, but that was probably for the best. They could head off and find something much more interesting to occupy their time, and Nathan knew there wasn't one person aboard who wouldn't be glad to do just that, and as soon as possible.

* * *

Letting out a satisfied breath as she tightened the last bolt Lonnie rocked back on her heels and scanned her handiwork. With a nod she put her silent seal of approval on it and twisted enough to set the wrench back in its place in the case beside her, catching sight of Ortiz a few metres away as she did so. She didn't stare, especially not after their little—whatever it had been, on the way to the launch bay, but she did give him a subtle once over where he stood, obviously studying something on the device in his hands.

As she watched he closed his eyes, keeping them closed for several seconds, actually squeezing them shut briefly as he lifted one hand and rubbed at them with his thumb and middle finger. And did she see him pinch the bridge of his nose?

Lonnie dropped her gaze before he could feel her eyes on him, concentrating on closing the case and securing it before she so much as glanced up again. Ortiz was just lowering his hand then, blinking his eyes several times and taking an obviously deep breath. From where she crouched she could see the exaggerated rise and fall of his chest.

He looked tired.

And was it really any wonder?

She made herself drop her gaze again, shaking her head mostly to herself with the reminder that, as he had been quick to agree, it really was none of her business. If he was tired because he'd stayed out later than was reasonable the night before shipping out then that was his business. Not hers. He was a grown man and he didn't need anyone pointing out his mistakes. Not that Lonnie necessarily saw hooking up with a stranger as a _mistake_, but personally she couldn't really see the appeal. Not getting enough sleep and paying the price the first day back on duty? That, on the other hand, was definitely a mistake.

But it wasn't her place to point it out to him. Miguel had made it perfectly clear before they'd headed over to the station that he wasn't open to the idea of discussing anything about it with her and as much as she disapproved of his method of doing so that was his right. If he only wanted to talk to certain people about it, certain _guys_, then so be it. She had reached out and he had turned her down. End of story, really.

Still, she couldn't help but sneak odd glances at him as they packed up their gear and made their way back to the docked launch. By the time they boarded and got underway back to the _seaQuest_ Lonnie was convinced that Ortiz was not just tired, but _exhausted_. That, or he was coming down with something.

But still she didn't ask. Because it was none of her business. Because it wasn't her place. Even if she normally would have been one of the first to make sure he was okay she had received his message loud and clear, and so she would give him space. At least for a little while.

* * *

The headache had come out of nowhere. At some point during their work aboard the station it had snuck up on him and taken root, and it was growing more and more difficult to just ignore it as he normally would have. It was no real mystery to him _why_ he had one, it was an expected consequence of not getting enough sleep, especially after consuming alcohol, but it had been a while since he'd had one this bad. A _long_ while, actually.

Maybe when they were done with getting the supplies sent over to the station he would head to med bay and check in with Doctor Smith, see if she had anything to take the edge off.

Miguel hesitated at that thought, catching himself wondering if there was really any need for that. It was just a headache, after all, and there was no need to disturb Wendy over something so minor, was there? It would pass on its own. All he needed was a good night's sleep, and to make sure he stayed hydrated. And maybe some basic painkillers. But he didn't need to bother Doctor Smith for those.

The faintest smile touched his face at the thought that he had had too much to drink after all, despite thinking that he hadn't hit his limit. Maybe all those shots Piccolo had kept ordering for the group had hit him harder than he'd originally thought. The guys were bound to get a laugh out of it, if it turned out he did just have a hangover. He'd never hear the end of it, especially from Brody, who was bound to boast about just how much liquor he could put away without any ill effect.

When they were back on board the _seaQuest_ Miguel took a few minutes to give the supply manifest a once-over, giving it a nod of approval before sending the team on their way. With that taken care of he made his way out of the bay with the intention of returning to the bridge, but not before a quick stop in his quarters to retrieve those painkillers his head continued to remind him he needed so badly.

And bad was the right word for it. The deeper into the boat he went the worse the pain got, almost as if it had something to do with the distance itself. But Miguel knew that that couldn't be the case. As crazy and inexplicable as things could be aboard the _seaQuest_ he couldn't believe that there was any connection.

What if there _was_ though? What if something aboard the Renford Station had affected him somehow? More unbelievable things had happened, and in the not too distant past at that, and was it really such an outlandish idea?

But no one else had appeared affected. Had they?

Even as he opened the hatch to the quarters he shared with Tyson he reminded himself that he had been concentrating on keeping an eye on sensors and other vital systems aboard the launch during their return journey, and he hadn't paid much attention to the team on their way back through the station either. Besides doing a quick headcount and making sure everyone was accounted for he hadn't looked too closely at his teammates. But they had all _seemed_ fine at a glance, hadn't they?

No, it didn't make sense.

But then, what did? He had missed more sleep in the past without side effects like what he was experiencing now. And he _knew_ he hadn't had too much to drink.

Nothing made sense.

Maybe paying a visit to Doctor Smith wasn't such a bad idea after all.

It was as he closed the hatch again, hearing it seal, and ascertaining with a glance that Tyson was elsewhere, that the pain spiked enough to buckle him back momentarily against the door with not just one but both hands going to his head. It throbbed behind his eyes sharply enough to make them water and briefly stole the breath from his lungs, freezing his gasp of discomfort in his throat.

The pain escalated to the point where he thought he would either vomit or black out, piercing through his skull like a white hot poker, and then just as suddenly as it had hit it was relenting, loosening its grip on him. The force of the wave of agony had almost knocked his legs clean out from under him, leaving him awkwardly collapsed halfway to the floor. Before he could get his bearings he heard a voice, as crystal clear as if the speaker was right beside him.

"_I was hoping to go a little longer without revealing myself, but oh well. Nothing for it now."_

Pressing his back to the door behind him Miguel dropped his hands and looked around, confirming once again that there was no one else in the room. Turning as quickly as he dared with his legs still feeling a touch unsteady he looked through the porthole in the hatch. There was no one there. He turned again and glanced at the communications unit on the table nearby. The lights were off and it was as silent as the rest of the room. He dropped his eyes to his belt, to the PAL secured there, but that too was inactive.

"_Give it a moment. It'll come back to you."_

Miguel turned on the spot and backed away from the door, his eyes shifting around the room once again as his mind raced to try and make sense of the voice without a source.

He almost thought he heard a sigh, a quiet huff of impatience and frustration.

That voice.

It was _familiar_.

As he stood there, standing alone in the middle of the room, he thought back to the previous night, to the woman he had met outside the bar, the same woman he had ended up leaving with.

But—

Miguel's throat went dry.

But he didn't remember _leaving_.

His breath caught in his throat as it came back to him, what he _did_ remember. The alley, the touch to his neck, and then nothing until waking up in that large empty room. And—

"Irina." It was little more than a whisper.

"_Not Sasha."_ The voice sounded pleased. _"Correct."_

The next impulse that fired through his brain was to ask where she was but he immediately dismissed it, knowing it to be absurd, not to mention a waste of time. Because he _knew_ where she was, or at least where she _wasn't_. He lifted first one hand and then the other, pushing his fingers back through his thick hair to almost exactly where he remembered her hands taking hold the night before.

"Leaving an impression," he mumbled to himself, uneasily, feeling the grimace cross briefly over his face. Oh, God, she was—

"_In your head?"_ He actually heard her laugh, the exact same laugh he remembered from that abandoned factory floor. _"Yes, Miguel. I am. I've been here the whole time, keeping to myself and letting you go about your business without even realising you had company, but—"_ Another one of those sighs. _"Well, you were starting to make it impossible for me to continue the charade."_

Miguel slid his fingers from his hair, inadvertently tousling it and leaving it falling around his face more than he usually allowed. "What do you mean?" Even as the question left his lips he was piecing it together for himself. Shaking his head he cut her off before she could answer, saying, "The headache. So long as I was content to write it off as a hangover there was no threat. But I was going to go and see Doctor Smith."

From God only knew how far away Irina made a disapproving grunt of a sound, almost as if the name he had spoken had left a bad taste in her mouth. _"Believe me when I say, Miguel, that your dear Doctor Smith—" _he couldn't help but notice the derisive way in which she spoke the name herself, _"—poses absolutely no threat to me. But it would have caused more problems than I'm willing to deal with at the moment, yes."_

Swallowing against the dryness in his throat Miguel looked around the room, wondering as discreetly as possible if she was aware of his surroundings and every single thought and intention that passed through his head, no matter how briefly. "She's strong," he said, appearing for all intents and purposes to be thinking aloud, talking to no one but himself. "She'll sense your presence."

Irina sounded amused. _"Oh? Is that so?"_ Another laugh. _"Oh, Miguel, you forget: she was no more than ten feet from you on the bridge just this afternoon, and she didn't suspect a thing."_

But surely the longer Irina maintained contact, Miguel thought, the more chance there was of Wendy detecting something.

"_Trust me when I tell you,"_ she said, and there was a warning thread in her voice as it resonated through his skull, _"that she won't detect a single thing unless I __**want**__ her to."_

His throat was even drier now. It was starting to feel like it was coated with sand. "I—"

She cut him off, fiercely and abruptly. _"You will say __**nothing**__. To __**anyone**__."_ The force of it almost literally had him staggering back. For a moment he felt dizzy, disoriented and lightheaded. _"Do you remember what I told you, Miguel? What I'm capable of, even at such a great distance?"_

His blood started to run cold as he lifted one arm, slowly, and touched his hand to the back of his neck under where his hair covered the skin. The injector. She—or the man with her, Evan, had injected him with something.

"_A little something to keep you in line, yes."_

A bad taste rushed up to rest heavily on the back of his tongue. Shaking his head slowly and lowering his hand from the back of his neck, he grasped at something, _anything_, to say. A debate, an argument, a denial, any little way to derail or destabilise her.

"_You think that someone will notice that you're not yourself,"_ she said then, filling the silence with her voice, full of certainty and composure. _"You think my control will slip and you'll be able to warn someone, tell them what's happening."_

That cold feeling that had been sweeping through him intensified, making it feel like it was ice in his veins instead of blood. It was dread, he knew. Pure, unfiltered dread.

"_That will not happen. You will not draw attention to yourself. You will not drop little hints to any of your friends. You will not try to warn them."_ There was a heaviness in the pause before she went on that actually unnerved him. _"If you do,"_ she went on, her voice dropped low, almost a growl, _"I will be forced to take action."_ Another pause, equally cold and foreboding. _"Do you understand me, Miguel?"_

It would have been easy to refuse to believe her, to write it all off as little more than an empty threat, but with her voice flooding his head so effortlessly and the way she had so completely altered his memory and maintained the illusion for hours, it felt foolish to do anything of the sort. It felt reckless, like playing with fire, tempting fate in the worst way possible.

"_Good."_ Irina sounded satisfied, if not pleased.

Miguel, on the other hand, felt sick to his stomach.

"_Now,"_ she went on, _"don't you have to be getting back to the __bridge__?"_


	5. Unsteady Ground

"Mr. O'Neill."

The Captain's voice had him twisting in his seat instantly, sliding his headset back so that he could give his commanding officer his full attention.

"Get a whereabouts on Ortiz. He should be back from the launch bay by now." As he said as much Bridger cast a pointed glance down to the helm, where Henderson had reclaimed her seat after finishing up at the mining station.

"Yes, sir," Tim confirmed, inwardly wondering what could be keeping his friend. Had he stopped in the galley to grab a quick bite to eat, or something to drink? As he was turning back in his seat he saw Henderson looking in his direction, a slight frown on her face that made him wonder if she knew something that he didn't. At his frown she gave him the slightest shrug, her expression apologetic, and then went back to her work.

If she _did_ have something to say it would have to wait until later.

He made short work of establishing a line between his station and Miguel's PAL, which he should have been carrying with him, wherever he was. Now all he had to do was wait for Miguel to _answer_ it.

* * *

"_Answer it."_

When his PAL had chirped so suddenly and sharply he had actually started physically, having to take a moment to register that the sound was coming from his belt and the device secured there. Even then he had hesitated, uncertain as to how he was supposed to speak with whoever was on the other end without making it obvious that something was wrong.

"_Miguel."_ A warning.

With that ball of dread in the pit of his stomach growing larger and harder with alarming speed he fumbled the PAL from his belt and activated it. "Ortiz here," he managed to say, and fairly levelly at that.

"It's O'Neill," came the response. "Captain Bridger wanted me to find out where you were."

Because he should have been back on the bridge by now. Of course.

"_Lie to him. And make it convincing."_ Irina's voice was firm and unwavering. _"This can be your first test."_

He didn't like the way she said that. But he had to answer Tim or things would only get more complicated and difficult to deal with. "I stopped in my quarters to grab some painkillers." That was what he had been _intending_ to do, after all, and it would be the easiest thing to remember if he was prompted again. "I'll be right there."

"You okay?"

"Just a headache." Miguel actually managed to summon a touch of his usual carefree attitude as he said that, surprising himself in the process. It didn't feel good though, deceiving Tim like that.

"_It's for his own good,"_ Irina told him, confirming once and for all that she was able to pick up on pretty much any thought that passed through his head.

"Okay, well—" Tim hesitated but whatever gave him pause passed quickly enough and he simply said, "—see you soon."

He disconnected the call, shoving the PAL back into place at his belt and closing his eyes, having to take a deep breath to gather himself. It had only been a brief conversation, and not even face-to-face, but it had felt like a mammoth task. The nausea came creeping back. How the hell was he supposed to do this?

"_Because you don't have a choice."_

Miguel had to swallow against that simmering nausea and take another deep breath.

He could do this. He _had_ to.

"_Go. Now."_

It took every ounce of strength he possessed in that moment to turn himself around and leave the room. Every fibre of his being screamed at him not to, to stand his ground and refuse to cooperate. In that moment that was all he wanted to do. But he couldn't. Because as Irina had said, he didn't have a choice.

* * *

After what felt like an eternity of walking a path so familiar he could do so with his eyes closed, Miguel reached the bridge, catching sight of Captain Bridger and Commander Ford looking back at him, the former with the faintest degree of concern and the latter with an impatient and expectant expression.

"Sorry I'm late, sir," he told Bridger, meeting Ford's gaze briefly as well. "It won't happen again."

Tim was looking at him as well now, silently studying him for signs that he was anything but fine and he had to force himself to give the other man a small nod. Given the look Commander Ford had been giving him upon his arrival a smile probably would have only made things worse.

After a moment or two of silence Bridger acknowledged him at last, saying, "I'll take your word for it, Mr. Ortiz." And he gave a nod up towards the platform, prompting Miguel to head back up to his station. He could feel Ford's steady gaze on him the entire time and as he was adjusting his headset he met the Commander's eye.

"_Don't make him any more suspicious than he already is."_

Miguel amazed himself by not reacting physically to the sudden voice in his head. Instead he dropped his eyes in what he hoped was a properly cowed and sheepish way, distracting himself by running a routine sweep with the WSKRS. They hadn't left the Renford Station yet but they would soon and Captain Bridger would want a report on the surrounding area.

When he chanced a brief glance in Ford's direction he was relieved to see that the Commander had gone back to his own work. It was as he turning his gaze away that he caught sight of Tim still looking in his direction.

Dammit.

"_Is he going to be a problem?"_

Miguel's throat went dry again, and the beginnings of that unwelcome nausea started to settle once more in the pit of his stomach.

"_Think it. You don't need to speak for me to hear you."_ The way in which Irina told him as much reminded Miguel of the way in which someone would speak to a child who was failing to grasp a fairly simple concept. He allowed himself a moment to feel annoyed, in which he could have sworn he heard a wisp of laughter through his skull.

_No_._ He won't be._

"_He looks concerned."_

_He's my friend._

"_I'm aware."_ That impatience was creeping back into her voice. _"He's still staring."_

And she wanted him to stop.

Miguel managed to summon a smile, offering it to Tim with the slightest shrug, almost as if to communicate embarrassment.

For a moment Tim just looked back at him before finally returning the smile, shaking his head with the slightest upward quirk of his brows. It was an affectionately disapproving look, the sort he had come to recognise easily in his best friend, but he would have to be careful not to concern Tim any further.

"_Yes. You will."_

He swallowed against that lingering dryness and turned his attention to his screen instead. _He'll want to talk to me. Make sure I'm okay._

"_Naturally."_ She was quiet for a few moments, giving him a chance to study the readouts from the WSKRS, before she added, _"I hope you're a good actor, Miguel."_

The threat was subtle but he picked up on it, and in that moment it was impossible to keep himself from casting a concerned glance in Tim's direction. He managed to turn his gaze down again before anyone noticed him, masking the slip by pretending to study his screen. He kept his eyes glued to the readings from Loner as he recalled as much about the previous night as possible, thankful to be at his station as he did so that he could cover his concentration by acting as though it was all related to his work.

"_You're wondering,"_ Irina began, proving once again that she could pick up on his thoughts as easily as if they were being broadcast to her over a loudspeaker, _"why I can't just take everything I want or need from your mind and leave it at that."_

Managing to continue to use his keyboard as he did so, Miguel thought back at her, _Pretty much._

"_You said it yourself, Miguel: you don't control any critical systems and your clearance will only get me so far."_

His exact words echoed right back at him, more or less.

"_But, I'll admit,"_ she went on, calm and conversational, _"I've been sifting through and taking bits and pieces here and there. You __**do**__ know some interesting things after all. You were selling yourself short."_

He had told her that she should have set her sights on someone higher up the chain of command but Miguel was well aware of where he stood in the grand scheme of things. He wasn't on the uppermost rungs of the ladder, that was true, but he was definitely on the upper third. Irina _could_ have aimed higher, certainly, but—

"_I could have done __**much**__ worse,"_ she interjected smoothly, and almost smugly. Like the cat that got the cream.

"Sir?"

Bridger looked down at Tim expectantly.

"Launch bay reports that the supply team is docking now."

"Good," the Captain responded with a nod and looked down at the Communications Officer again. "Check in with the station and make sure they have everything they need. If there's nothing else, we'll be on our way."

"Aye, sir." Tim quickly got to work, and after a moment he touched a hand to his headset and entered into brief communication with someone on the other end of the line. Miguel couldn't make out the conversation. "We're all clear, sir. Renford Station reports they have everything they need and wish us a safe journey."

That seemed to please Bridger, who smiled and chuckled, exchanging a satisfied look with Ford before he said, "Very good, Mr. O'Neill." With that the Captain concluded their business with the mining station and approved the _seaQuest_'s departure. Miguel didn't really listen to the familiar orders to disengage and move clear as they were issued, turning his attention back down to his own workstation even if his mind was on anything _but_ his work.

"_Don't be so miserable, Miguel. This doesn't have to be unpleasant. All you have to do is—"_

_Betray my friends, my crew, and the UEO._ Miguel had to almost literally bite his tongue to keep from saying the words out loud. Bringing one hand up, elbow propped on the edge of his console, he balled his fist in front of his mouth as he clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw started to ache.

"Something wrong, Mr. Ortiz?"

Captain Bridger was looking at him.

Dammit.

"_If you're not careful,"_ Irina said in a low voice, reminding him for a moment of the quiet growl of warning in the throat of a predator, _"this might __**have**__ to be unpleasant. And for a lot of people."_

Miguel forced himself to lower his hand, making sure to do so at a normal speed, straightening a little more in his seat as he cleared his throat. "No," he said with a shake of his head. "Sir," he added, as naturally as possible.

That wasn't good enough.

"I was having a little trouble with Loner's long-range scanners for a second but they've cleared up now."

Bridger tipped his head back in the beginnings of a nod of understanding. "Well," he said after a moment, "keep an eye on it. We need to be able to rely on your little friends out there. We don't want anything sneaking up on us, do we?"

It was a struggle to conjure one but Miguel managed to offer his Captain a smile. "No, sir," he said, his voice surprisingly steady despite how unsteady he felt on the inside.

"_You're going to have to do better, Miguel. Be careful."_

Miguel bit his tongue again, eyes fixed on the screen in front of him, hoping she could pick up on every single insult that crossed through his head, not just in English but in Spanish as well. There weren't enough in just one language to properly convey to her how much he hated her and what she was aiming to get out of him.

From the sound of Irina's laugh as it rang through his head, he suspected she didn't miss a thing.

Unfortunately, it didn't make him feel even a _little_ better.

* * *

He was _delightfully_ belligerent. It was almost a shame that she couldn't see his face while he fumed. She imagined he looked particularly handsome when his blood was running hot with anger the way it was now. She could practically feel the heat of it against her skin like a physical flame and she couldn't help but smile as she rocked back in her seat and let out a breath.

Evan wasn't far away, sneaking glances at her regularly as if he had any cause to be worried about her efforts.

Silly boy. He ought to know better by now.

Irina gave him a smile, as calm as you please, and claimed the cup that he had set beside her a short while ago. The liquid inside was still pleasantly warm and she sipped from the rim as she drifted back along the connection that spanned miles upon miles and dipped once again into Miguel Ortiz's mind. He wouldn't have even noticed her absence, fleeting though it had been.

She watched him work from his own perspective, able to perceive just enough of his surroundings beyond what he himself could pick up on to know that no one else on the bridge was paying him any real attention.

Good. Much better.

As she had told Miguel she had been able to glean some interesting bits and pieces of information from his mind already, picking through idly while he was unaware of her presence, during the time when she had kept him from remembering what had actually happened after their meeting outside of the bar. She had sifted through with the casual ease of a shopper in a store who wasn't entirely sure what they wanted but was perfectly content to browse at their leisure. What she had learned she had made sure to take down, to the letter, on a secure device that she knew from experience could not be hacked from any outside source, saving it for later, when she found the right buyer.

The bigger things, the _real_ treasures, would have to be worked for, she knew. Miguel had told her himself, and she had verified, that he didn't have access to a great deal in the way of classified or sensitive information. But as Sensor Chief there was plenty that he _did_ know that she could pass along to interested parties. For the right price, of course. She wasn't about to just hand over the things she learned, obviously, but once the word got out that she had valuable information from the UEO's flagship the right people would come calling, and they would have those right prices ready for her.

Until then it was just a matter of biding her time and waiting for the right opportunities to collect what she needed. If Miguel didn't play his part then she had her ways of ensuring she got what she wanted, what she needed, whether he wanted to help her or not. It would be easier for him, and all those around him, if he toed the line, of course, but Irina wasn't afraid to do things the hard way. If he forced her hand.

Honestly? Part of her hoped that he _did_.

As she took another sip of her drink she couldn't help but smile to herself.

It wasn't that she was a particularly cruel individual, but she had never believed anyone who had told her that they didn't enjoy having power over others. She had heard enough unfiltered thoughts and read enough raw intentions to know that every single person on the planet desired that power, that control, whether they were willing to admit it to themselves or not. She was just honest and driven enough to go after it, and to use the gifts she possessed naturally, psychic and otherwise, in order to do so. How that made her in any way terrible she had never been able to understand.

She focused once again on Miguel, remaining quiet for a few minutes while he actually worked, taking note of the way in which he did so. He was methodical and meticulous, able to split his attention and take in several points of information at once, multitasking as effortlessly as if it was just the one duty he had to perform instead of several. And all while he was aware of having what he would call an unwelcome visitor inside of his mind. There was no denying that it was impressive, and once again Irina allowed herself a smile, all the more pleased by her choice. His ability to split his focus like that would go a long way towards helping her get everything she was looking for and in next to no time at that.

Eventually she had to break the silence, noting the way his hands paused briefly in their previously smooth motions over the keys and various other controls as her voice filled his mind: _I assume your vessel has top-of-the-line surveillance systems._ A rhetorical musing. Everyone already knew the answer to that.

Miguel was silent for a few moments, quietly resenting the ease with which she invaded his privacy. He was tense. Frustrated. _"Obviously."_

_Yes,_ she agreed straightforwardly. _Obviously_. She took another sip from her cup. _And I would assume, obviously, that you have means of bypassing such systems._

She felt him pause, physically _and_ mentally, and picked up on his debating on whether or not he could deceive her.

_You already know the answer to __**that**__._

More frustration. Irritation. _"Bypass how?"_

Irina couldn't help but smile again. He was sounding increasingly short-tempered, just as they all did when they started to realise she was with them at all times and there was nothing they could do about it. _Well_, she began, _we wouldn't want anyone picking up on us digging around in certain files and records, would we? That would be all kinds of awkward and uncomfortable._ She made sure to lean on that last word, reminding him that they had discussed the subject of comfort, his and everyone else's, not so long ago.

Again he was quiet and she could pick up on his concern even as he took in all those around him with a swift, sweeping gaze.

_So._ She gave him a moment. _What sorts of measures are we dealing with exactly?_

This time his hesitation had more to do with the need to recollect details than it did any kind of defiance or frustration. _"Cameras, obviously. Certain systems and areas of the ship require unique authentication codes."_

_Which areas?_

"_Weapons."_

_The __**nuclear**__ weapons, you mean?_

Quiet. Further hesitation. Not so much to do with recollection this time. She heard him sigh as he conceded, _"Yes. The nuclear weapons."_

There was something there, something he was trying so hard not to think about, but with a little persistence and focus she managed to shoulder her way past his distractions enough to uncover it. _But you can access the __**systems**__ for those weapons, even if you can't get to the physical warheads._ She didn't need to phrase it as a question. And that wasn't all, either. _And you can __**get**__ access. You have in the past._ She waited for him to try and deny it, pleased when he didn't waste her time or his own in doing so. _You were one of the ones who oversaw the delivery of the _seaQuest_'s last shipment of syntium-based warheads._

She dug a little deeper and gave a little laugh, shaking her head. _Ah, so __**that's**__ it. _She took a moment to sip her drink calmly. _You think you might no longer be able to access those systems and areas because of Clay Marshall and his attempt to steal that syntium._

Miguel didn't need to confirm it with a thought but he did so anyway. _"Yes."_ After a moment he added, _"He managed to force his way in but he couldn't get what he wanted. He failed."_

Irina took a moment to make herself more comfortable in her chair. _Yes, he did._ She felt Miguel's hesitation. He wasn't sure how to take her response. So she cleared it up for him. _Because he was impatient and clumsy. Sloppy and, quite frankly, embarrassingly incompetent._

It wasn't hesitation that she felt then, but confusion. Miguel effortlessly recalled how close the _seaQuest_ had come to total disaster when Clay Marshall had been aboard, and the ease with which he had compromised several members of the crew.

When Irina laughed she did so out loud as well as through their connection. _A Dagger, a child, and poor little Doctor Smith. Please._ She set her cup down. _Any psychic who claims to be as powerful as Clay Marshall insisted he was who can be stopped by any idiot just because they've put something out of their head is an insult to the name of psychic._ She rose from her seat, feeling the building need to move around, stretch her legs, not to mention walk off her own frustrations. _If you're thinking about comparing me to that pathetic, self-mutilating, small-minded, infantile little maggot of a man, you'd best be sure you can live with the consequences._

God knew it was bad enough to be lumped in the same category as those like _seaQuest_'s simpering, soft-spoken Chief of Medicine.

When Miguel didn't think a word to the contrary she took a breath and let it out slowly. _Good_, she told him, much more lightly, her tone softening once again. _Underestimating me is a dangerous mistake to make, Miguel. For your sake, and the sake of all those you're so desperate to protect, I hope you don't make it again._

She let that sink in, let it take root in his mind in the hopes that he would keep it close during what would follow. Irina didn't want to have to remind him of something that should have been obvious this entire time. As she stood several paces from her chair, aware of the weight of Evan's gaze on her, she felt her warning settle in the mind of the Sensor Chief, felt the way he absorbed her words and the very real danger behind them. When she had given him what she felt was sufficient time to understand just how thin the ice he was standing on really was, she breezed back into his mind to get them right back on track.

_Now then_, she began with an air of cool professionalism, satisfied that they had an understanding, _tell me about the rest of _seaQuest_'s security measures._


	6. Gasping for Air

By the time the night shift arrived to take over Miguel felt more exhausted than he could ever remember feeling in his entire life. It was an actual effort to push himself up from his chair and he genuinely almost forgot to remove the headset from atop his head before making his way down from the platform. His relief gave him a small smile, uncertain whether to say anything about his obviously wearied state, and when they evidently thought better of it Miguel was silently relieved. Without a word he made a beeline for the clamshell doors, intending to forego getting anything to eat and just heading back to his quarters instead. What he needed more than anything else was a good night's sleep, and maybe to wake up and realise, blissfully, that this had all been a bad dream.

Miguel sighed to himself, knowing there would be no such luck. It wouldn't be that easy. What he _really_ needed was a way to get an unwelcome hitchhiker out of his brain and _keep_ her out, but—

"_You won't get rid of me that easily,"_ Irina chimed in, right on cue. _"Not until I'm good and ready to leave of my own accord, actually. Just in case you were wondering."_

And he had been, as well she knew.

Miguel muttered a curse roughly under his breath as he made his way down the corridor and almost literally jumped out of his skin when a voice to his right said, "Wow. You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"_Jesucristo_, Tim!" His hand was actually halfway to his heart, as if he could keep it from jumping up into his throat, and he stopped dead in his tracks to stare at the other man. How long had he been there? It didn't even occur to Miguel in that moment that he had taken the Lord's name in vain, something he normally wouldn't do in his friend's presence.

Tim's laugh was a little awkward, the other man obviously instantly unsure whether or not what had just happened was really a laughing matter. "Sorry, Miguel, I—uh, I didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't—" He forced himself to take a breath. "You didn't _scare_ me."

"Startle, then," Tim corrected with a shake of his head. "I thought you knew I was—did you really not realise I was here?" He pointed down, as if he meant that exact spot.

Miguel knew what he meant. He thought about lying but it was stupid and pointless. With a shake of own head and a sigh he admitted, "No. I didn't. Sorry." He pushed his hair out of his face absently.

"Wow." For a moment that was all Tim said and then he cleared his throat and added, "You were in your own little world or something. I wasn't going to say anything but—"

But then he'd cursed under his breath and Tim had both heard _and_ understood. Naturally. "Yeah. Sorry."

"Everything okay?" His friend's brow furrowed as he frowned, looking him over. "No offence, but you don't look so great." And he'd been off all day. Tim didn't say it, but really, he didn't need to. It was written all over his face.

Miguel pounced on the first excuse to come to mind, one he had already planted the seeds of earlier. "It's this headache."

"Still?" Tim just looked more concerned. "You should head to med bay, get Doctor Smith to—"

"No, no, it's fine." Miguel allowed himself another sigh. "I just need to get some sleep, and—" he paused and actually managed to muster at least half a smile, "—remember not to drink everything put in front of me."

"Especially if it's by Piccolo?"

Miguel actually laughed at that, his smile becoming more genuine. "Especially if it's by Piccolo." He nodded his head and looked down at his boots.

"I was going to ask if you were headed to the galley to grab some dinner," Tim said to him then, his own amusement having tapered off. When Miguel lifted his head his friend was ready to meet his gaze. "You really should eat something, you know." When Miguel paused again Tim went on, adding, "At least come and grab something to drink. If you're dehydrated—"

"Okay." Too blunt. "Yeah. Good idea." Miguel knew that relenting was the best thing to do, that if he didn't give in and let Tim see him eat or drink _something_, then the other man would only continue to fuss. As soon as the word passed through his head it felt unfair and he regretted it.

"_He is __**incredibly**__ pushy though, you have to admit. Is he always like this?"_

Miguel very nearly told her to keep her opinions to herself out loud and counted his lucky stars that he managed to just stay silent instead. He didn't even think them at her.

"_You don't need to, handsome. Not when it's that obvious."_

He needed to do something. Anything to keep him from giving in to his growing desire to break something. "So." Tim met his gaze instantly. "Galley?"

The Communications Officer bobbed his head in a nod and offered his usual awkward smile. "Galley," he agreed, and then started to move again.

Miguel took a moment, just a single moment, to close his eyes and take a deep breath to calm and gather himself. Only then, after he was done letting that breath out again, did he turn and follow.

* * *

Tim couldn't help but be concerned about his best friend, especially given how difficult it normally was to jar Miguel's usually consistent good mood and generally positive demeanour. Not so long ago he had told Darwin that the other man was, in his own words, never bummed, and he didn't think it was unfair to put it that way. Everyone on board knew that they could always count on Miguel Ortiz to be the positive and optimistic one, even if things had been bleak. Even after the Sensor Chief had almost been killed by the Stormer who had infiltrated the _seaQuest_ Tim could remember the ease with which Miguel had conjured a smile while the medical staff had been patching him up. And Tim knew that it hadn't been a result of whatever painkillers Doctor Smith had given him. That was just Miguel, never letting life get him down, or at least not letting it _keep_ him down for more than a moment.

But as he glanced to his right then he couldn't recall another time when he had seen the other man looking so run down and out of sorts. Even during crisis situations Miguel was composed and collected, always keeping his wits about him and not letting anyone see him falter for so much as a second. Right then he looked like he'd had just about all the stuffing knocked out of him, his arms crossed on the table in front of him with his eyes fixed on his barely touched dinner tray.

Miguel always had a healthy appetite as well, for that matter. Like most in some sort of service he never passed up an opportunity to eat, knowing that it might well be a long time before he got another chance.

And did he look a little pale? Tim thought he did. And now that he _really_ looked, Miguel's eyes weren't really fixed on his uneaten food after all, but instead seeming to stare straight through it and the table beneath.

Suddenly those eyes were turning in his direction. Tim knew even as he made the attempt to divert his gaze as naturally as possible that it was obvious he had been—

"You're staring."

Yes. That.

Clearing his throat he shook his head, frowning a little as he started to deny it.

"Tim."

Turning his attention back to Miguel, he found the other man watching him. He _was_ pale, Tim was convinced of that now, and if he didn't know any better he could have sworn there were the very beginnings of shadows forming under his friend's eyes. Just how little sleep _had_ he gotten last night? "Okay," he said after sighing, "I was." He set down his fork, which hadn't actually made contact with his food in a few minutes anyway, and shuffled his chair a little closer to the edge of the table. He lowered his voice so he wouldn't be overheard as he said to Miguel, "It's just—"

Was this really such a good idea? Was he bordering on nagging at this point?

He took another good look at Miguel and decided in an instant that the answer to that second question was no, or at least it didn't really matter if he was because this was his best friend, and caring about your friends was never a bad idea.

"You don't seem like yourself."

Miguel blinked and then averted his gaze, dropping it briefly before turning it back in the general direction of his tray. For a moment he was quiet and then he took in a breath, saying, "It's just—"

"This headache, yeah," Tim cut in, keeping his eyes on his friend. "But you said yourself, how long have we known each other?" When Miguel glanced his way Tim quirked both eyebrows upward. "You've had headaches before, but they've never knocked you for six like this one has." He saw Miguel hesitate and took the opportunity to press on. "I just want you to go and get it checked by Doctor Smith, that's all. I mean—" It was his turn to pause and pull in a breath. "We know better than anyone how something small can just get out of hand."

Miguel sighed. "Or turn out to be something else entirely," he conceded, albeit wearily. Or maybe it wasn't weariness, but instead the very beginnings of concern. It was difficult to tell.

Tim let out the very beginnings of a laugh. "Exactly." The best thing to keep in mind while on board the _seaQuest_ was that nothing was impossible. He was about to go on, meaning to take the opportunity to lift the mood a little, when he noticed that Miguel had closed his eyes and turned his face away. Not completely, but enough that it was noticeable. "Miguel?"

"It's—" When Miguel opened his eyes Tim was ready to meet his gaze with an almost challenging stare. It wasn't nothing. With another sigh his friend said instead, "Okay, you win. I'll go and get checked over."

That was more like it. "Okay. Good." He gave a small nod. "Thank you." Maybe it was odd to thank someone for opting to look after themselves but not in Tim's mind. He was just relieved to hear that his friend was going to take his advice after all. He watched as Miguel started to push himself up out of his seat and took the opportunity to add, "And drink a big glass of water before you turn in for the night." When Miguel glanced his way with an unspoken question in his eyes Tim shrugged and said, "That always helped me." He never had had much of a tolerance for alcohol.

It was good to see Miguel smile, even if only briefly, and his friend gave the smallest nod as he said, "I'll do that." On his feet again, Miguel paused for a moment and then said, a little more quietly, "Thanks, Tim." He even set his hand on Tim's shoulder after he said it, albeit only for a moment, but it was still enough to render Tim speechless just long enough for Miguel to take his leave.

By the time Tim gathered himself again and turned in his seat, Miguel was already through the door and out of sight.

* * *

"_Slow your breathing. Someone is going to notice."_

_I don't care._

"_**I**__ care."_

_Yeah? Too bad._

"_I beg your pardon?"_

_You heard me. You can take what you think and go straight to hell._

Miguel's breathing didn't just slow then so much as halt altogether, as if someone had suddenly closed a valve on his lungs, abruptly cutting off his air. The shock of it made him stagger to a stop, one hand immediately going out to catch himself against the wall. His knees felt like they were shaking. His chest felt hot and tight. And it _hurt_.

Irina's voice was a low roll of warning thunder. "_Speak to me like that again and you'll __**more**__ than regret it."_

He could barely breathe but he could still form a thought, or at least enough of one that Irina could pick up on it.

"_You think you don't care what I do to you, is that it?"_ A scoff of a laugh rippled through his mind. It didn't just sound bitter and scathing, but _felt_ it too. It was enough to make him physically shudder. _"That may be true, Miguel, but what about the people you love?"_

And then, without warning, his mind was flooded in a fleeting rush by images of those very people. He saw the crew, all those he considered close and dear friends, but it didn't stop there. Not even close. His mother, his father, aunts and uncles, cousins, his grandmother, all four of his sisters. His sisters' _kids_. It was almost enough to completely buckle him against the wall.

"_You care about __**them**__, I trust?"_

Miguel couldn't even begin to form a response, still reeling in shock from the barrage of familiar faces.

"_Remember how much you care about them the next time you even consider disrespecting me like that again." _Irina's voice was dropped to little more than a growl.

He felt sick. Literally sick to his stomach. He had to blink tears out of his eyes and he wasn't sure if it was the nausea or the fear that had brought them to the surface in the first place. Instead of trying to figure it out he used his free hand to swipe and rub them away, realising belatedly that he could breathe again, that the pressure in his chest had released completely.

"_Now get out of the corridor before someone sees you,"_ Irina snapped impatiently. _"And pull yourself together, for God's sake. This is getting beyond tiresome."_

Any temptation he might have had to fire something sarcastic back at her had already been stripped away by the shock of the threat against his family. Instead he remained quiet, both inside and out, and straightened himself again, just in time for one of the science personnel to come walking around the next corner. She was clearly engrossed in whatever it was she was reading but she still spared him a brief glance, giving him a smile that Miguel had to force himself to return. It was gone the instant that eye contact was broken, dropping from his face like a stone as he pushed himself forward and down the corridor.

At the end of the corridor was a junction, one path leading left and the other to the right. The one to the left started him back to his quarters. The right one would lead him to med bay.

He didn't pause for long before turning left.

"_Good boy."_

There was still a very real note of danger in Irina's voice, making it obvious that she wouldn't be forgiving him any time soon. Miguel walked the path back to his quarters as quickly as he could without rushing, not wanting to draw any attention to himself, trying and failing not to recall those faces she had forced into the forefront of his mind. By the time he pushed through the door and into his quarters properly his stomach was churning again and he had to concentrate all of his strength on keeping that nausea from getting the better of him. There was a chair in the corner of the room, which he dropped into once he was sure that he was alone. Just as his head dropped into his hands, a combination of exhaustion and the lingering effects of that shock, Irina's voice sounded again.

"_Don't get too comfortable,"_ she said, her words firm, all business. _"We still have work to do."_

The air rushed out of Miguel's lungs, his shoulders slumping. "I can't." It was little more than a whispered groan as it slipped out of him.

"_Pardon?"_ Her tone had darkened again.

Miguel pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyes firmly enough for a kaleidoscope of colours to dance in the darkness. "I _can't_." He felt the build of tension, the rise of her anger, and he lifted his head from his hands as he said, before she could speak, "I need to _sleep_."

She didn't respond immediately, and Miguel took that as an invitation to go on. "You heard Tim. I'm not acting like myself. I'm _exhausted_, and I can't keep people from noticing that. I have to—"

"_Sleep."_ Irina's voice was tight but it lacked the sharp bite of anger that it had possessed only moments before. _"Very well. Sleep. We'll begin in the morning."_

His shoulders slumped even further at that but he didn't argue. He was too tired. Without a word he stripped down to his undershirt and boxers, not even realising he was keeping his eyes up as he did so until Irina said with a trace of mirth, _"Don't be so shy, Miguel. It's nothing I haven't seen before."_ He didn't want to know if she meant him specifically or just in general, keeping himself silent as he clambered into his bunk and buried his face in the pillow. He didn't even take the time to shut off the light and no sooner had he dropped into the bunk than he was tumbling into the darkness of sleep.

* * *

That darkness was all around when he opened his eyes. It stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. Even the space beneath his feet was an ocean of infinite black, calling to mind the image of a gigantic maw open wide and ready to swallow. It felt like he would fall at any moment, just plummet into that oblivion, and he almost didn't dare to move after turning on the spot to try and find something, _anything_, in the dark.

But if it was so dark, how was he able to see? He was aware of not only the darkness but of himself in that blackness, and the fact that he was back in his uniform.

How had he gotten here? Where _was_ here?

"No need to panic." The words drifted out of the dark and as Miguel turned to try and track the source he became somehow aware of the fact that the voice seemed to be coming from all around him. That frustrated him, his mind so used to having hard facts laid out clearly before him, his ears normally so highly tuned to even the slightest change, but now he couldn't pin it down. It made that blackness more ominous somehow, greater and more foreboding.

"You're not dead," said the voice, and it sounded like it originated from directly behind him, spinning him on his heel to once again try to find the source. "Well, dead to the _world_ maybe." There was a thread of laughter in that statement.

And then it hit him.

"I'm not awake." He continued to look into the blackness around him despite the fact that he couldn't see a thing beyond the point he occupied. "But this doesn't feel like a dream."

And then he was no longer alone. Out of the darkness she strode, as vivid and clear as if she really was walking towards him, her feet seeming to touch down on nothing at all and yet she didn't even so much as stumble or sway. Irina's eyes met his and she gave him a smile that only lifted one corner of her lips. "Because it's _not_ a dream."

He focused on pulling in a deep breath, unsure after the fact why he had bothered if none of this was real. Did he even need to breathe in whatever this was?

Irina's smile grew.

That was all the proof Miguel needed in order to know that she could still read his mind.

And he realised why.

"Is this your mind or mine?"

Irina's head tilted, intrigued, making him think of a cat. "Clever boy," she said, stepping closer to him. Miguel stood his ground, such as it was, refusing to give her the satisfaction of backing away. She studied him for several seconds and then her lips parted with a hushed _ah_ of understanding. "The Avatar." Her smile was more amused then but there was something about it that made Miguel think she considered the title ridiculous.

"Because I do," she confirmed. "But—" She took her eyes from his and swept them over their surroundings. "This is similar to that, yes." Her eyes met his again. "And it's certainly not _my_ mind."

He was on the verge of asking her why when it occurred to him that she would likely never invite anyone, psychic or otherwise, into her mind. She lifted one hand and briefly pointed a finger at him, confirming the suspicion for him without a word.

"Am I still on _seaQuest_?"

"Of course."

"The Avatar was in a coma."

"But you're not."

Miguel narrowed his eyes. "So what _is_ this? Why are we here?"

Irina stepped closer again, obviously testing the waters, curious to see just how close she could get before he would react. "As much as I enjoy our little chats while you're conscious, it's difficult to have a _proper_ conversation that way." In the darkness he heard echoing remnants of the usual background noise of the bridge. "Too many distractions." It quieted again. "And this is exactly what you said it is: your mind. In the physical world your body is asleep, but in your unconscious mind, right here, we can interact as easily as if we were in the same room." She stepped closer once again. "Which reminds me."

And then the back of her hand cracked across the side of Miguel's face with enough force that he staggered, seeing stars and almost choking on a gasp of shock and pain. One arm raised, the back of his own hand touching to the point of contact. It felt warm, and tender. As if she had actually physically struck him.

"That's for telling me to—what was it? Go to hell?" Irina had leaned close enough to speak the words next to his ear.

When he lowered his arm and turned his head she was close enough for him to see the different shades of green throughout her eyes. Part of him wanted to move back, get some distance between them, but the rest of him wondered if there was any point in trying.

"You're right." The voice came from _behind_ him. In the blink of an eye she had moved from one place to another.

Miguel turned as quickly as he could, only to be met with another blow, this time from what felt like a fist. It caught him so completely off guard that it knocked him right off his feet. When he hit the ground it was hard and solid and the landing winded him. When he opened his eyes and managed to focus them he saw the black expanse stretching to eternity beneath him, a disorienting enough sensation that he felt momentarily dizzy and nauseated.

"There is no point in trying." Irina's voice sounded calm and confident as it came from above and Miguel could see out of the corner of his eye that she was standing to his right.

As he worked to push himself up from the ground, or whatever steady surface they were supported on, he became almost instantly aware of the sharp pain through his face where she had struck him. Warily he lifted his gaze to her face, finding her watching him, waiting silently. "This isn't real," he said.

"No," she confirmed. "Not strictly speaking." She waited until he was all the way on his feet before she went on, "But the mind is a powerful thing, as you should know. It has a remarkable capacity for what you might call creative interpretation, limitless really, especially for those of us who know how to manipulate them."

Which meant she was making all of this _feel_ real.

"Your mind makes it real, Miguel." Irina's eyes were fixed on him, unblinking. "I'm just giving it more to work with."

When he was back on his feet properly, he gave in to the impulse to back up a step and put a little more distance between them. Even knowing it was pointless, he allowed his body to do it. Or his mental representation of his body. Miguel tried not to think too hard about the mechanics of it, how exactly it all worked. All he needed to know was that it _did_. Before getting to know Wendy as well as he had he wouldn't have thought anything like all of this was possible, but he and the rest of the crew had had their eyes opened to just how much a psychic was capable of.

Cautiously he watched her, waiting for her next move. There was every chance she might lash out again in another strike and he wanted to at least _try_ to be ready this time.

"Don't give me a reason to hit you," she said, fairly casually, "and I won't _have_ to hit you."

Miguel felt his jaw clench at that, his temper flaring just briefly before he managed to get it under control again. "You said you wanted to have a proper conversation." He quirked his eyebrows up. "So are we going to talk, or not?"

"Again, right down to business." Irina frowned briefly. "I'm starting to think you're not as much fun as you first led me to believe you would be." She didn't seem particularly bothered by his lack of response, tossing him a smile before she took to pacing. It wasn't a restless or impatient motion, instead it was more carefree and idle, adding to the impression of someone with all the time in the world and not a single trouble on her mind. After a few moments spent pacing in silence she tossed a narrowed-eyed glance at him. "You really can't imagine what I might want to talk about?"

"Enough games," he fired back at her, standing his ground again and trying to keep his voice level, but he heard the tightness in it, the growing frustration.

Instead of answering she just lifted one neat brow upward. Expectantly.

He stifled a sigh and kept his gaze on her, even as he thought about it. All things considered, it didn't take him long to come to a conclusion. "We still have work to do." Her words, not his, and he said them quietly. They had sounded ominous enough when she had spoken them in his mind while conscious and they felt just as dangerous now as they had then. Speaking them quietly didn't make them any less troubling but it felt like he had to treat them carefully all the same.

Her smile was slow and pleased and she slowed to a halt in front of him. "There it is."

His eyes had drifted from her face as the words had left his lips but he brought them back up to meet hers. "What work?"

"Isn't it obvious?" She spread her arms wide. "I didn't just ask about the security systems out of curiosity, Miguel." She wagged a finger at him. "You know better than that."

There was that sinking feeling again. He thought about staying quiet, not responding to her, as if that would keep her from asking him to do what he suspected she wanted him to do, but in the end he realised how futile and foolish that was. Speaking it didn't make it more likely, just as keeping it to himself didn't really make it private. Right on cue Irina smiled knowingly, at which point he gave up on staying silent and said, "You want me to disable the security systems."

She winked at him, but almost immediately afterwards her expression sobered. "But it has to be done in such a way as to not arouse suspicion, doesn't it? We can't have Lieutenant Brody or your little child prodigy getting suspicious." She paused, tilting her head contemplatively. "Well," she went on, "it's more likely to be the boy than it is the Lieutenant. For someone in his position, he doesn't seem awfully bright." With a smile she added, "It's adorable, really."

Miguel could have defended Brody but there was no point in it. Irina would have her opinions no matter what he said or did and it was a waste of time and effort trying to change her mind. "And if I tell you there's no way to do that?"

"Then I'd call you a liar." All the mirth was gone from her voice.

He said nothing, just held her gaze silently.

"You know this ship and its systems like the back of your hand. You know the ins and outs of how it works, and whatever you _don't_ know you can figure out quickly enough." She tilted her head again, once more reminding him of a cat. A large one. Something cunning and deadly, like a jaguar or a tiger. "I know you can do what I ask, Miguel, and denying it or making excuses will only make this more painful than it needs to be."

A sudden wave of crippling pain roared through his body and buckled his legs right out from under him, dropping him heavily to his knees. Every breath, struggled and gasped with alarming difficulty, felt like he was trying to gulp down fire. It brought tears to his eyes, and buckled him even closer to the ground, one hand going down while the other arm folded around his stomach as if he could protect himself that way. But the pain kept tearing through him, searing and scorching until he thought it was going to kill him.

And then it stopped. Just like that it was gone, as if it had never been.

"It doesn't have to be painful."

Once again her voice was close, right beside his ear almost, and when his vision had cleared enough for him to be sure of the fact he saw that she had crouched at his side. Taking one arm from where they were neatly folded across her bent knees she reached out and brushed his hair back from his face.

Miguel immediately pulled himself back and away from her touch. His voice felt like it had burned up into little more than ash, sticking unpleasantly in his throat, so he just turned as steady a glare in her direction as he was capable of mustering.

With a sigh Irina said, "Maybe if you let me touch you, this wouldn't be so unpleasant." She calmly draped her arm back across her knees. "I could make this _much_ more enjoyable for you, Miguel, if you would only let me." She smiled at him, that same smile she had worn outside the bar before he had known who she really was. _What_ she really was. "Would it really be so bad?" she asked him, holding her position as he worked to get his breathing back under control. "No one would know. It would be our little secret." Her expression had turned playful, mischievous, almost hopeful. "All of this—it can be whatever you want it to be. All you have to do is decide."

When he spoke at last his voice was still rough, scratchy and painful, but he managed to push the words out between his teeth with a decent amount of resentment anyway. "Keep your hands off me." Swallowing against the discomfort in his throat he held her gaze defiantly and said, "If I have to choose between the pain, and you?" He called up as much of a scathing smile as he could manage before concluding, "I'll take the pain. Every time."

Irina's expression had turned dark and grave, her eyes stormy as she rose to her feet smoothly and swiftly. "Fine." The word was as sharp as a knife. "Have it your way."

In a surging, blinding rush the pain was back, dropping him all the way back to the ground in agony, his screams echoing into the endless black that pressed in from all sides.


	7. Snake in the Grass

When he snapped awake it was with the sound of his own screams still echoing through his skull.

It was disorienting, unnerving, chilling and eerie. It was just _wrong_.

For several seconds Miguel simply lay there in his bunk, not daring to move and trying to steady himself enough to sit up. He felt like if he did it too early he might get nauseated all over again, but the longer he lay there on his bunk the worse he felt. Damned if he did, damned if he didn't.

With a quiet groan he pushed himself up, sitting on the edge of the bunk with his eyes closed. There was no nausea, thankfully, but he had a sneaking suspicion his headache hadn't gone anywhere. When he opened his eyes and looked down at the watch on his wrist it took him a moment to realise he was gazing at it in the dark. The light was off. In the quiet he also realised he could hear slow, deep breathing.

Tyson.

Miguel looked back down at his watch, grateful for the dimly glowing points on it that helped him to gauge just how early it was.

It was just after 0400 hours.

"_The early bird catches the worm."_

He almost groaned again before remembering Tyson's presence, biting it back instead. He told himself he wasn't grateful for the ability to reply mentally, but he knew he wasn't fooling anyone. _My shift doesn't start for another four hours._

There was a trickle of laughter through his mind. _"Nice try, Miguel. But you know exactly what I want you to do before then."_

He swept a hand over his face. _I told you—_

"_And I told __**you**__ that I know you can do it. You know it too. Denying it is not only pointless, but irritating. Now get dressed."_

For a second Miguel sat there in the dark and contemplated refusing to do as he was told, but then the distant echo of his own voice ringing out in unbridled pain drifted through his skull once again and he found himself slipping out of his bunk and complying. He didn't think, didn't dwell on it, simply pulled on his jumpsuit once again and tugged his boots on before stepping out into the corridor. He closed the hatch behind him as quietly as he could and then, after looking up and down the corridor, crouched to tie his laces.

He tried not to think much after that, either, hoping to let his body take over and go through the motions of its own accord, almost as if he could free himself of any blame if he did so. Stupid, really. Childish and absurd. Even as he gathered the few tools he would need from where they were stored he knew that it was really him doing all of it. It wasn't anyone else. He couldn't shrug off the blame just by letting his mind wander.

By the time he got to where he needed to be and had all of the wiring exposed he had stopped trying to distance himself mentally. Partly it was because he needed to concentrate in order to do what he was about to do, but also because there really was no point in trying to check out, so to speak. So instead he got to work, keeping himself busy by laying the tasks out neatly in his mind and keeping them in a clear and precise order. It wouldn't make any sense to Irina if she looked at it, but that didn't matter.

"_Lucky for you,_" she chimed in, almost distractedly, as if her main focus was elsewhere. It was almost as if she was reading a book or a magazine and only partially paying attention to what he was doing, glancing up occasionally to make sure he was doing his work.

Miguel just kept on working, checking readings on the screen of the handheld he was using to make sure everything was in order, making adjustments and switching things up as and where necessary. No one else even so much as passed by at either end of the corridor, and everything was quiet and still save for the low hums and soft tremors of the _seaQuest_ as she cut smoothly through the ocean's depths.

It didn't take him long, all things considered. Only a little over an hour had passed before he was covering and securing the wiring once again, his handheld deactivated after he had run one last check on the systems. Satisfied that everything was how it needed to be, he gathered up the tools and got to his feet, making his way back to return everything to its designated place.

"_That didn't take long."_ Irina's voice was almost disinterested now. Obviously she didn't have much of a head for the task he had just completed. With a low huff of a sound she said, _"I don't know how anyone __**could**__, honestly. It's so dull. I can't think of anything less appealing."_

Miguel suppressed a smile even as he returned the last item to its home, turning his arm so he could see the watch on his wrist once again. His shift didn't start for another two and a half hours.

"_Fine,"_ Irina cut in with a sigh. _"If you want to go back to bed, I won't stop you."_

But would she let him sleep undisturbed? That was the real question.

"_Only one way to find out, handsome."_

She called him that because she knew it bothered him, he was well aware of that, but he didn't have the energy to even so much as frown. Instead he made a beeline for his quarters and got himself undressed and back in his bunk again as quickly and quietly as possible. As soon as his head hit the pillow he was out like a light.

* * *

There was only one thing that made early mornings tolerable, in Tony's mind: a hot shower and a hearty breakfast. Okay, so maybe there were _two_ things.

Unfortunately for Tony he had used up his water ration for the month already and he hadn't been able to persuade Luke to transfer some of his own over to him. He would have to settle for the ionised, waterless kind, and hold out hope for the hearty breakfast. So long as he didn't get to the galley and find there was only fruit and oatmeal on offer he figured he should be okay.

He was just finishing up the unsatisfying albeit effective shower and stepping out of the cubicle in his towel when a familiar figure entered the room. "Hey, Chief," he greeted, heading for the bench where he'd set down his stuff. "You sleep in or what? I'm usually one of the last ones through here in the mornin's."

Ortiz glanced up at him and said nothing for a moment, as if he hadn't noticed he had company, and then shook his head. "Catching up, I guess."

That was enough to make Tony smirk, giving the other man an approving nod. As he turned and sat himself down on the bench to start tugging on his uniform he was aware of the other man going through the same motions in reverse and then stepping into the showers as well. A not so small spike of envy shot through him when he heard the water jets kick in, and he glanced up just as Ortiz was ducking his head under the flow. Surely guys like Ortiz used up more water than anyone else, with all that hair. Did that mean they got extra rations?

He'd have to look into that.

By the time he had all of his clothes on the Sensor Chief was still standing under the flow. Just standing there.

"Hey, Ortiz?"

"Huh?" He pulled his head up, having to use one hand to sweep his sodden hair back out of his face. "Yeah?"

"Might wanna use soap or somethin'." Tony shrugged. "Not that I wanna tell you what to do or nothin'."

"Oh." After a second Ortiz cracked a smile and chuckled, clearing his throat a little afterwards and speaking more clearly. "Good idea. Thanks."

"Yeah. No problem." Tony frowned to himself as the other man turned to actually get to the whole showering part of showering. He stood there for a few more seconds before snatching up his towel and heading out. Whatever was going on with Ortiz was none of his business, and like the other man had said, or at least implied, he was still catching up on the lost sleep from the last night of leave.

It wasn't until he had disposed of his towel and started on his way to the galley that he remembered he hadn't yet tied his boots or buttoned his shirt. He made short, hasty work of the former, ducking out of the way in the corridor as it grew progressively busier, and taking his time with the latter as he got underway again. One time he had missed a button and hadn't noticed until Commander Ford had pointed it out, none too pleased by the mistake, and he was in no rush to repeat that whole incident even if just about everyone else had gotten a good laugh out of it.

When he stepped into the galley and was greeted by the smell of cooked food he breathed a sigh of relief. There was hope for his morning yet.

He helped himself to a decent selection of what was on offer, blissfully forgetting that the meat and egg products weren't authentic, and made his way over to the closest table occupied by people he knew that had a spare seat. Henderson was in the process of gently freeing a banana from Dagwood's large fingers as he took a seat and she gave him a smile. "Morning, Tony."

"Hey," he greeted in return, looking between her and the GELF. True to form Dagwood had a rather large and mismatched selection of foodstuffs on his own tray. "I don't know where you put it all, Dag."

The GELF looked back at him. "It goes in my stomach," he said, as if surprised that Tony hadn't known that beforehand. With a crooked and almost boyish smile he added, "I have a big stomach."

"Yes you do, Dagwood," Henderson agreed as she finished peeling the banana, handing it back to him and indicating the top of it to wordlessly instruct him where to start eating from. "And we have to make sure it gets filled, don't we?"

With a pleased hum of a sound Dagwood nodded. "Yes." With that he took a sizeable bite of the banana and sat back in his seat to chew contentedly.

Tony had watched the simple exchange while scooping up generous forkfuls of his own breakfast, only really pausing to take a drink every now and then. Henderson frowned at him. "What?" It was only when she grimaced briefly that he realised he had said that with his mouth full. Whoops.

She opened her mouth as if to respond, hesitated, and then closed it again with a shake of her head. "Never mind," was all she said.

Quirking a confused brow at her Tony ultimately shrugged it off and went back to his breakfast. He didn't have much time before he needed to report for duty. When he glanced up again, reaching for his drink, he saw Henderson looking across the room, her gaze fixed on something. Turning his head to follow her eyes it only took him a couple of seconds to realise she was watching Ortiz. The Sensor Chief had come straight from the shower, having obviously hastily towelled off his hair, given that it still looked damp from where Tony was sitting. As they watched he briefly considered the food on offer before grabbing a single slice of toast and an apple. After that he made his way out of the galley again.

At the low sound from across the table, like a closed-mouthed _huh_ of confusion, Tony turned to Henderson, who was still looking towards the door through which the Sensor Chief had retreated. "What?" he asked, thankfully with no food getting in the way this time.

She turned her eyes back to him, blinking as if she had forgotten she had company, and drew in a breath as she started to shake her head. Tony thought she was going to leave it at that but after a brief pause she said, "Didn't seem like much of a breakfast to me." She met Tony's gaze again. "That's all."

"He normally eat more than that?" he asked, indicating over his shoulder with his fork. He wasn't in the habit of keeping track of anyone else's appetites, personally, but something was definitely bugging Henderson and he doubted it was the Chief's choice of fruit.

Idly shifting her cutlery on her tray, positioning the utensils more closely together, Henderson tilted her head a little. "Usually." She took her hand from the tray. "Yeah," she said more decisively then. "Yeah, he does."

"Maybe he only has a small stomach," Dagwood offered at that moment, speaking with his usual air of innocence. He was still holding the very end of his banana in his hand, the last bite evidently trapped within its peel.

Henderson gave him a soft smile. "Maybe, Dag," she agreed, casting a fleeting gaze back in Tony's direction before reaching over to help the GELF retrieve the last of the fruit.

Tony turned away from the pair and back towards the door, frowning himself now. First the shower, and now this?

_Still none of your business, Piccolo._

True enough. He straightened in his seat, turning his attention back to what remained of his breakfast.

It was none of his business.

But maybe it was worth keeping his eyes peeled all the same.

* * *

The day passed with a steady and unobtrusive sort of monotony that left much of the crew to their own devices, carrying out basic routine tasks and diagnostics in order to fill the time. From the looks on some faces there were a few people wishing for some kind of excitement, anything to break up the tedium, but there were just as many who were silently thankful for the opportunity to go about their business without any sort of chaotic interruptions.

Miguel was neither.

For his part he didn't even notice how quiet it was, and he spent a good deal of his day casting furtive glances at Brody when the Lieutenant was actually on the bridge. At some point in the afternoon Lucas made his way in and headed up to the platform, claiming an open station to start working on something, possibly some task assigned by the Captain or maybe just some project he had come up with on his own. With Brody off somewhere else he was able to turn his surreptitious glances towards the teenager instead.

"_You're lucky he's so focused on something else."_

The voice almost startled him, and physically at that. He felt his muscles tense in the beginnings of a jerk of surprise but managed to catch it and hold it in, turning his eyes forward to his own screen. Irina had been so quiet for the majority of the day, once his shift had started at least, that on some level he had almost forgotten about her presence entirely.

"_And you're lucky I don't take that personally."_

He stifled a sigh.

"_Why do you keep looking at Boy Wonder?"_ she asked him. _"Don't think I didn't notice you giving Lieutenant Clueless the same sorts of shifty glances either."_

Taking a moment to punch in a command for Loner to venture out on a wider sweep of the area, Miguel only answered when he trusted himself to do so without any hints of frustration. _Just watching for signs._

"_Signs that they're on to you?"_ She made a low sound, dismissive and subtly scathing. _"If you did your job properly, they shouldn't be."_

Rolling his shoulders a little to try and free up the last of the tension he could feel bunching there, he returned, _I was just making sure_. He checked a low-level notification from Mother alerting him to the presence of a shark, part of a system he had set up to ensure Darwin was never in any undue danger. As he dismissed it, knowing the dolphin was in the aqua tubes at that moment, he allowed himself the smallest smile. _They're a lot smarter than you think._

Irina was quiet, and as the seconds passed without any sort of response Miguel felt his smile, subtle though it was, slip off his face entirely. He tried to tell himself that there was nothing ominous about that silence, that it didn't mean anything, just as it hadn't for the majority of the day, but somewhere right in the back of his brain and right down in the depths of his gut there was something telling him otherwise.

By the time his shift ended and the relief crew arrived he still hadn't shaken that feeling. It followed him from his station all the way off the bridge and back to his quarters. It hung heavy in the air around him as he paced the room, and tied his stomach into knots. It gnawed and worked at his mind incessantly.

And then, quite without warning, it was gone.

Calmly and quietly he took a deep, steady breath and headed back out of the room.

* * *

Quiet days always seemed to drag, and that was especially the case for Communications. With no messages to relay and no impending battles to brace the crew for, there wasn't a whole lot for someone like Tim to do on a shift like the one that had just ended. He had kept his eye on things, obviously, and listened out for any signals of any strength that might have made their way to the _seaQuest_, but there had been no maydays, no mysterious or inexplicable sounds, and no incoming calls from UEO Headquarters.

The very definition of uneventful.

Tim was glad it was over.

It was a little early to get anything to eat but he would head to the galley soon anyway, if only to see if there was anything going on down there. Sometimes small groups headed from the galley to the lounge to pass the time with a game of cards or just to sit around and talk casually, and while Tim was far from the most outgoing member of the crew that didn't mean he couldn't spectate. Sometimes that was just as much fun, if not more so, than actually taking part. You could learn a lot about people from observing and listening, and considering the latter was a big part of his job, his whole _career_, it was practically second nature to him now. Tim was pretty much always listening, even if most thought there wasn't much to be heard.

There was a knock at the door.

He hadn't been expecting anyone, had he?

With a small frown he headed to the door and pulled it open, his expression relaxing at the sight of Miguel standing there. "Oh, hey." When the other man didn't say anything in immediate response he went on to ask, "Is everything okay?"

"Can I come in?" Miguel asked the question quietly, almost as if he thought Tim might say no.

Which, of course, he wouldn't. "Sure, come on in." He stepped back and let his friend inside, shutting the door afterwards. As Miguel stepped into the room properly Tim watched him, taking note of how quiet he was. "Is something wrong?" He had thought that there might have been the day before, something his friend had written off as just a persistent headache, but now he wondered if there might be more to it than that. "What did Doctor Smith say? I didn't get a chance to ask you earlier."

Miguel had come to a stop in the middle of the room, but he hadn't yet turned to face Tim. There was a mirror in the room but the angle was bad and he couldn't make out his friend's face from where he was standing by the door. His frown returned as he stepped forward, closer to the other man, wondering if reaching out a hand would be overdoing it.

When several more seconds passed and his friend still hadn't turned or answered him, he threw caution to the wind and reached out anyway, laying the hand on Miguel's shoulder even as he spoke the other man's name in a concerned query.

It happened quickly. Too quickly.

Miguel turned and closed what little gap was left between them. A white hot jolt of pain shot through his abdomen. It robbed him of breath. His jaw dropped in a silent gasp as he tilted his head down to see where that pain had come from.

A knife. It was a knife. Buried almost all the way to the hilt in his stomach.

That made sense.

A horrible, excruciating kind of sense.

But there was something that _didn't_.

Tim brought his eyes back up, the darkness already starting to creep in, and locked gazes with Miguel.

But it wasn't Miguel.

Whoever was looking back at him from those brown eyes, it was _not_ Miguel Ortiz.


	8. Consequences

"M-Miguel?"

He blinked his eyes, confusion creeping in quickly not only at the sound of his name being spoken, but at the clearing sight of the face in front of him. Tim was looking right at him, frowning, his expression a mixture of disbelief and concern.

When had Tim gotten here?

Wait.

They weren't in his quarters. It was _Tim's_ quarters.

And what was he hold—

"_Dios mío_."

Tim's knees buckled right as Miguel was bringing his eyes, wide with horror, back up from the sight of the knife buried in his best friend's gut. With his hand gripping the hilt. Another frantic curse spilled hotly from his tongue as he fought to catch Tim on the way down, trying to keep him from hitting his head or—

Oh God, what did it matter if he hit his head? He had been _stabbed_.

_He_ had stabbed him.

"What did you do?" he gasped, fear flashing through him, thinking back to his field medic training and telling himself not to pull the knife out. "What did you _do_?"

"I-I—" Tim was struggling to speak. "I didn't—"

"No, no, no, I know, I know." Pressure on the wound. He had to put pressure on the wound. And call for help. He lifted his gaze to look for the comm system.

"_Get a hold of yourself."_

"What did you _do_?" He snapped it that time. If Tim thought the words were directed at him then he showed no sign. He was struggling to remain conscious.

"_What I had to do—"_

"You didn't _have_ to—"

"_Don't interrupt me."_ The words were carried on a fierce rush of impatience and disapproval. Miguel didn't speak again immediately, trying to press his hands to either side of the blade to further stem the bleeding, silently cursing himself for his stupidity as he took one hand and moved to reach for the comm unit on a nearby table just behind a novel with a bookmark protruding from the middle.

"_And don't you __**dare**__ press that call button."_

He was about to deny her when he was blinded to his surroundings by the jarring and all too vivid image of Tim's body lying on the floor in a pool of blood, the wound in his stomach paling in comparison to the ugly one carved across the width of his throat. Miguel snapped back to reality with nausea threatening to overcome him, his own blood running cold even as Tim's pulsed hotly against the hand still pressed to the wound.

"_Now you listen to me, and do __**exactly**__ as I say, or I'll finish him off and you can spend the rest of your life rotting in a cell with your best friend's blood on your hands __**and**__ your conscience."_

Miguel swallowed against the dryness in his throat, silently terrified by the fact that Tim's eyes had slipped closed now. Shakily he gave a nod, unable to say or do anything else.

"_You lied to me. Tried to deceive me. I'm not an idiot, and this is the price of mistaking me for one."_

Oh, God.

"_I know that whatever you did to the security systems can be discovered and repaired easily, just as I know you were hoping I wouldn't figure that out. But as I told you before, Miguel—"_ her voice had become a low growl, _"—you cannot hide anything from me. You cannot trick me. You cannot __**beat**__ me."_

"Please." It was little more than a gasp. Tim was still bleeding. He was getting pale. "I-I'm sorry. Please just—"

"_You will do it again. __**Properly**__ this time. No tricks, no games, no clever little ploys. Give me your word and I'll let you save him."_

If it meant saving Tim then he didn't even need to think about it.

"Okay. My word. You have it."

Irina was quiet for a few moments. They felt like an eternity, agonisingly drawn out.

"_Good."_ Her tone became more business-like. _"First things first, remove the knife."_

"But he'll—"

"_Remove it or I will, and you won't like what I do with it afterwards."_

Closing his eyes briefly, trying not to recall the image of his best friend's dead body, he pulled in a deep breath to steel himself, uttering a hasty but heartfelt, "I'm so sorry," to Tim as he let it out. And then he took hold of the knife with his free hand, and pulled it from the wound as smoothly and steadily as he could.

"_You'll need to dispose of that. We don't want anyone examining it, do we?"_ It was a rhetorical question but he shook his head anyway. _"Give me your word again. Swear it on those who mean the most to you."_

She showed him his family again. His friends among the crew.

"_Lo juro_." He caught himself. "I swear it. I swear."

The pause was only fleeting that time before she said, _"Conceal the knife and call for help. Tell them you don't know what happened. You found him like this."_

There was nowhere to hide the knife except down his boot, where he shoved it hastily despite the risk that the blade would catch at his ankle or foot. He didn't care. With the blade buried down the outside of the boot he yanked and shoved his pants leg into place to cover it and then immediately fumbled for the comm button. The book was knocked aside in the attempt and as his hand smacked down on the button it tumbled all the way off the edge and hit the floor. Miguel felt an extra flicker of guilt even as he summoned his voice in a cry of, "Medical emergency in Lieutenant O'Neill's quarters!"

As soon as the last word left his lips he released the button and pressed that hand down to the wound as well. Blood was pulsing out more freely now, at an alarmingly steady pace. He could feel it pulsing against his palms and by the time he heard the thunder of footfalls in the corridor outside both of his hands were slick with it.

Wendy spilled through the door first, freezing in place at the sight of Tim on the ground with Miguel bent over him. Her face was a mask of shock.

"Doctor!" He practically bellowed it at her. They were running out of time.

She hurried forward then, dropping to her knees on the ground and getting to work immediately.

Brody was right behind her, his own shock subtler but far from concealed. "What the hell happened?" His gaze swept the room then, obviously searching for threats.

"I-I—" Miguel caught Wendy's eye briefly and wondered if maybe, just maybe, she would know, she would _feel_ it, but all he saw in her eyes was sympathy and concern for someone whose closest friend was badly hurt. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" Ford had arrived as well.

Irina's words flashed through his mind. "I found him like this."

Other members of the medical team came through the door then and one of them took Miguel's place, prompting him to stumble clear and keep his distance. He didn't even realise Brody had moved closer until the other man spoke from directly beside him. "Miguel." That snapped his attention to the side, where the Lieutenant had crouched down to his level. He was sitting on the ground, by Tim's desk.

Get up. He needed to get up.

Awkwardly, fumbling, uncoordinated, he managed to get back to his feet, one of Brody's hands catching him under the arm to help him. Ford had moved closer by then and was waiting for more information.

"Miguel," Brody said again. "Did you hear anything? See anyone?"

God, his throat was so dry. He managed to shake his head. "No." It came out too quietly. Too shakily. "No," he said again, louder, more steadily.

Ford snagged his PAL from his belt even as the medical staff worked on getting Tim secured to a stretcher to transport him to med bay. "Ford to bridge. I want a security team ready to sweep the boat from stem to stern, deck by deck." He locked gazes first with Miguel, and then with Brody. "We have an intruder on board."

No. They didn't. Miguel wanted to tell them, he wanted to shout it at the top of his lungs, but his voice was stopped up in his throat. No words came. He said nothing, just stood there silently staring towards the departing medical team.

The intruder wasn't on board. Not technically. Not physically.

His stomach lurched. The taste of bile surged up his throat. "I-I need to—" He couldn't get the rest of the words out.

Thankfully Ford didn't ask for them. "Go."

He went. Unsteadily at first, almost stumbling out of the room, realising with a building sense of horror and shame that people stared at him on his way past. At his bloodied hands. Was he dripping it behind him as he went?

It was all he could do not to run. Moving on autopilot he turned into the closest washroom, shoving his hands into the sink and watching as the blood streamed from his shaking hands and swirled away down the drain. His hands were still dripping, with water this time, when his stomach lurched again, too powerfully to overcome or ignore, and he only just made it to one of the stalls in time. There wasn't much to bring up, it was more bile than anything, and he stood there slumped against the side of the stall heaving and trembling for what felt like a very long time before he trusted that he wasn't going to retch again.

As he twisted in the stall there was a biting pain down low on one leg, at his ankle. He turned his head down to stare at it, uncomprehending.

And then it came back to him.

The knife.

He went cold.

He had to hide the knife.

But there was something else he had to do first.

* * *

Brody's jaw was set grimly as he made his way to meet up with the gathered team in order to conduct the sweep of _seaQuest_. As he moved he caught glimpses of confused expressions, those who had no idea what was going on, but there were some who were frowning with concern, those who knew what had happened. Those people offered him nods, silent acknowledgements and encouragements. He didn't return any of them but he took note of them anyway.

Who the hell would attack O'Neill? And why? Of all the people on board to single out and try to eliminate, why him? And that was if they _had_ been aiming to kill him, not just badly injure. If they had meant to kill him there were other, more certain areas to strike, and there had been no signs of a struggle so Jim had to assume the attacker had gotten the drop on the Lieutenant. Why not go for the killing blow?

It didn't make sense. He needed more information.

As he closed in on the rendezvous point he made the decision to split the security team and have them start at opposite ends, meeting in the middle. That way, whatever intruder they had managed to pick up would be forced from one team to the other.

Hopefully.

There were too many damned places to hide on this boat, that was the problem. The security team could only do so much on foot, with their eyes and ears.

They would use scanners, sweep for any life signs that didn't match up with what they could see.

And if that didn't work? Well, they had an ace up their sleeve in the form of one Lucas Wolenczak, who could go through all the security systems much quicker than any of his own team could and find anything of note.

But one thing at a time.

He rounded the corner and found the assembled team waiting for him, ready to take in his plan which he laid out for them clearly, directly, and succinctly. There were no questions, no objections, and no further delays. With that they split off into their assigned units and spread out to track down their uninvited guest.

* * *

Nathan wasted no time in heading from the bridge to med bay. Jonathan was on his way back to the bridge by then, with Brody heading out to lead the search for whoever had attacked one of their own. By the time the Captain got to where he was going the area was filled with activity, with personnel coming and going at the sort of rapid pace anyone would associate with an emergency. From just outside he could hear Wendy's voice raised in an urgent request. He didn't catch the specifics.

Pausing only so long as it took to make sure he wouldn't collide with someone on the way in, Nathan stepped into the room, taking stock of the situation. Medical staff were hurrying from one place to another, some of them carrying equipment or medications with others just moving to let others take their place with the limited space around their point of focus. Doctor Smith herself was right in the thick of it along with Doctor Clarke, the _seaQuest_'s surgeon, the two of them engaged in what appeared to be a serious exchange.

And right there at the centre of it was Lieutenant O'Neill. Unconscious, pale, already hooked up to machines and an IV, with his entire abdomen red with blood. From where he stood, through the gap created by two members of the medical team as they went about their duties, Nathan couldn't see the wound, but Jonathan had appraised him of the situation as he'd been making his way to med bay.

Someone had stabbed his Communications Officer. One of his _crew_.

It wasn't the first time one of them had been hurt while aboard the _seaQuest_, and realistically it likely wouldn't be the last, but this sort of brazen and savage attack was rare, and all the more shocking and vile as a result. Nathan felt his anger rising along with his concern, pulsing through him with an intensity that he rarely felt.

The force of it was enough to have Doctor Smith lifting her gaze. She had sensed him, that hot anger of his. Taking her eyes from him she focused once again on Clarke at her side, slipping back into their discussion without so much as missing a beat. Less than a minute later she was breaking away from the group, peeling her gloves from her hands and moving around to Nathan where he stood as much out of the way as the space allowed. "Captain."

"What's his condition?"

"Serious," she said, without pausing to consider the question at length. "Doctor Clarke and his team are going to take him into surgery right away." As Nathan turned a disbelieving look on her she went on, "We believe there might be internal bleeding, and if we don't repair that damage immediately—"

"He might bleed to death."

Wendy's expression was serious, sombre, and as always, sympathetic. "Yes."

Even while they had been talking Clarke and his team were in the process of getting the Lieutenant on the move. Nathan knew without asking that he wouldn't be able to follow, and he couldn't help but wish that wasn't the case. The medical staff aboard the _seaQuest_ were the best at what they did but that didn't mean he wasn't worried, that he didn't want to keep watch over O'Neill and _be_ there for him.

Wendy's hand touched his arm. "We'll take care of him, Nathan."

He had to take a moment to pull in a breath, long and slow, to steady himself and his tumultuous emotions. He had to compose himself. The crew needed him to be steady and resolute. O'Neill needed that from him. "I know." He met the Doctor's gaze, reaching around with his hand to lay it over her own on his arm. "I know you will."

His thoughts drifted to Brody and his team, no doubt already on the move to start sweeping the boat from end to end, top to bottom, checking every nook and cranny. With knitted brows he focused once again on the woman at his side, turning to her more directly. "You once told me that sometimes it's easier to break through when a person is sleeping," he said to her.

She frowned briefly and nodded her head. "Sometimes, yes. That's true in most cases, actually, but there are exceptions, as with everything."

"What about when someone is unconscious?" he asked. "Is it the same?"

Comprehending what he was driving at then, she drew in and let out a breath, a sort of shallow sigh. After a moment she shook her head in a negative. "I'm sorry, Captain, but it's not." She withdrew her hand from his arm completely then, stepping away to toss the soiled gloves into a medical waste container. "When a person is sleeping, their mind is relaxed and therefore open, easier to access and read, like when I was trying to find Lucas and the others after their shuttle disappeared." When he gave her a nod to show he remembered, she went on, "Lucas was asleep, not unconscious. When a person is unconscious, there's usually some sort of trauma behind it, and if anything that closes the mind off even more. It's like—" She took a moment to search for the right words, gesturing vaguely as she did so. "It's like a lockdown, like when the access doors to the bridge or the moon pool seal during an emergency."

He appreciated the analogy, as frustrating as it was to hear that she wouldn't be able to communicate with O'Neill in his current condition.

"With the sort of trauma that O'Neill has suffered, that kind of shock to his system, I doubt I would be able to make any sort of contact with him." She stepped closer to him again then, saying more softly, "But I can give it a shot." After a moment she added, "Once he's out of surgery and stabilised."

Nathan let out a breath, a sigh he hadn't realised he had been holding in. He dipped his head in a nod. "Thank you, Wendy."

In response she gave him a smile, slight and certainly not lacking in concern, but he appreciated it all the same.

"In the meantime," he said to her, "we'll have to hope that more conventional methods can give us _some_ clue as to what we're dealing with here." More grimly he added, "I don't like the idea of having yet another hostile stowaway on my boat."

Doctor Smith's eyes were understanding as she stood before him, her hands knitted in front of her. "I can try and do a sweep of my own, if you'd like?"

She didn't need to clarify that for him. "Yes, Doctor, thank you."

"I can't promise I'll find anything, but I'll do my best."

Nathan gave her what little shadow of a smile he could call to the surface. "I know you will," he said once again before he gave her a small nod and took his leave.

* * *

His hands had been shaking the whole time. More than once he had thought that perhaps it wasn't just his hands, but every single inch of him. As sweat had started to bead across his brow and down his chest he had fought to collect every scrap of focus that he still possessed after what had happened and worked as quickly as possible to get the job done.

All the while he had been working, with a quiet kind of fury and desperation, he had felt wretched, dirty and rotten to the core. It had taken what little strength he could muster to keep the nausea from rising up again, and he hated himself even more for being glad that he had found an alternative access point for the systems he needed to get to that kept him out of view of the crew. Not many people knew about the alternate sites, the sorts of places Hitchcock had always known like the back of her hand and been able to get to even with her eyes closed. Miguel was taking advantage of that ignorance and he hated himself for it.

Even though he had washed it away before beginning his task he had felt the blood on his hands the entire time, he had even believed that he had _seen_ it more than once, and it had almost been enough to derail his concentration completely. By sheer force of will he had held on and forced his way through it, even going so far as to squeeze his eyes shut when it got so bad that he knew he was at risk of losing composure completely.

But he got it done. He completed the task.

And he did it properly. Thoroughly. He did exactly what Irina had wanted him to do in the first place.

His hands were still shaking by the time he shoved the last of the tools back where they had come from and once it was done he turned to leave, almost colliding bodily with an unmistakable figure in the process. The very beginnings of an alarmed curse jumped up into his mouth but he caught himself and simply froze on the spot instead.

"Sorry, Ortiz," Dagwood said quietly, dropping his gaze. No sooner had he done so than he was frowning deeply and bringing his eyes back up. "Are you hurt?" He pointed to Miguel's jumpsuit, more specifically to a dark and untidy streak across the front of it.

Blood.

_Tim's_ blood.

The taste of bile swam up once again onto the back of Miguel's tongue and he had to force himself to swallow it down, hearing the slight unsteadiness in his voice as he said, "No, it's—" _Not okay. It's not okay._ "It's not mine."

Dagwood looked puzzled then, as well as concerned. His head tilted, animal-like, to one side.

He didn't know what had happened.

Miguel opened his mouth to explain, to tell Dagwood what was going on, but the words stuck painfully in his throat instead and he couldn't find a way to force them out. Dagwood just continued to look at him, worried and uncomprehending, until Miguel couldn't take it anymore. The weight of the GELF's gaze was too much in that moment. The innocence and the trust behind it were more than he could bear. "I-I have to—" And then as quickly as he could he ducked around the much larger man and down the corridor, managing to keep himself from looking back as he rounded the corner and forced himself to keep going. His hands, along with every other part of him, were still shaking.

It was starting to feel like it would never stop.


	9. Empty Handed

Her speciality had never been surgery, nor had her interest ever turned in that direction, and as much as she regretted not being able to assist Doctor Clarke in the emergency procedure he was performing on Lieutenant O'Neill, there were other ways in which she could help. She had done her part in the assessment of the Lieutenant, obviously, and she had done what she could to stabilise the Communications Officer following his terrible trauma, but now it was out of her hands. At least for the moment. Once Doctor Clarke was done and O'Neill was out of immediate danger she would become his primary physician but until then she had to wait, just like everyone else.

But she didn't have to do so idly.

She had retreated to her quarters to fulfil her promise to the Captain, closing the door and dimming the lights before she sat cross-legged on the floor and closed her eyes. Her hands draped loosely over her knees, her back straight with her head held just so, her breathing slowing and steadying out despite the tension and uncertainty she could feel sweeping through the ship.

On a long, low exhale she opened her mind and reached through the corridors and rooms of the submarine, stretching her sixth sense to the limits of the vessel, stem to stern, port to starboard, sweeping every inch that she could access.

As much as possible she kept herself from reading specifics, thoughts and feelings that weren't pulsing vibrantly like beacons impossible to miss or overlook, and though it was difficult when she was reaching to her maximum as she was then she managed to filter and turn her attention away from anything she had no right to. What she was looking for was something unfamiliar, something unknown and unwelcome. She was looking for a presence she didn't know, one she had never felt before. Something that didn't belong.

Whoever or _what_ever it was, it should have stood out to her, feeling completely out of place in an ocean of thought and emotion that she had grown accustomed to, and oddly fond of.

But no matter where she looked, how closely she examined secret corners and dark and disused spaces, there was nothing calling out to her. There was nothing foreign, nothing strange and unusual. Nothing alien.

Wendy opened her eyes at last and let out another heavy exhale that was more sigh than anything else. There was a dull ache in the back of her skull that she knew by now to associate with her threatening to overextend herself, a low pulse of assurance that she hadn't held back in her search. She had come up empty handed not because she hadn't tried hard enough, but because there had been nothing to find.

Still, even with that knowledge, she looked down at her hands, very literally empty, and frowned not only in disappointment but doubt. _Had_ she tried hard enough? Was there something she had missed?

She pulled in a breath through her nose and recomposed herself, straightening her spine once again and settling herself anew.

Doctor Clarke would contact her when he was out of surgery. She had time to try again.

And so she would try again.

* * *

"Lucas. Lucas, are you there? Lucas, this is Commander Ford, please respond."

In the end it was a pair of feet awkwardly shoving his mattress from below that roused him enough that he heard the voice coming through the comm nearby. Right after that shove came Tony's groggy voice saying, "Answer the damn call, Luke. Some of us are tryin' to sleep here." It sounded like the other man shuffled and tossed in his covers in an attempt to go back to sleep.

"Lucas, _please_ respond."

That time he definitely heard it. Commander Ford's voice had an urgency to it that chased the last of his bleary confusion away enough for him to hop down from his bunk and connect the line from his end. "I'm here, Commander." He rubbed at his eyes, looking around distractedly for a clock of some kind to tell him just how late it was.

"I need you on the bridge, Lucas."

He frowned. "Now? It's like—" Dammit, what time _was_ it?

"I know it's late, Lucas, but I need you up here now. It's an emergency."

That got his attention, and successfully put everything else out of his mind. "Okay," he said, already looking around for his pants. "I'll be right there." The line disconnected then without any further word from the Commander. The fact that it was Ford calling for him and not Captain Bridger had him concerned but he tried not to let that thought get too strong as he tugged his pants on and looked around for his right sneaker. For some maddening reason it wasn't next to the left one.

"Here." Tony had swung his legs over the edge of his bunk and was holding the sneaker out in his hand. Lucas didn't ask where it had come from. "What's goin' on?"

With a shake of his head and a shrug he said, "I have no idea. It sounds serious, whatever it is."

Without a word and without asking if it was in any way necessary Tony stood from his bunk and quickly tugged his own clothes back on, following right on Lucas' heels as he headed out of their quarters and into the corridor beyond. As they moved through the boat as swiftly as possible without breaking into a careless run Lucas noted a general sense of unease and tension in all those that they passed. Was it just the sight of the _seaQuest_'s Chief Computer Analyst hurrying through the boat that had them on edge, or something else?

From what Commander Ford had said, Lucas was guessing the latter.

Within minutes they were striding onto the bridge and Ford was turning from his place by the Captain's chair to face them as they arrived. The older man looked briefly thrown by the presence of Piccolo but said nothing about it, instead focusing on Lucas. "I wouldn't pull you out of bed if it wasn't important," he said, his tone serious.

"Is the Captain okay?" He couldn't get his concern for Bridger out of the forefront of his mind, a heavy and terrible weight in his thoughts that was obscuring everything else.

Ford took a moment and then comprehension dawned across his face. "Yes, Captain Bridger's fine." He set a hand briefly on Lucas' shoulder as if to apologise for worrying him unnecessarily, but nothing in the Commander's expression softened or eased. Even if there was nothing wrong with the Captain, there was _something_ bad going on, or at least something that had the potential to turn nasty.

"It's Lieutenant O'Neill," Ford went on, beckoning both younger men further onto the bridge and closer to the command column. "He was attacked sometime after he got off shift."

"Attacked?" Tony sounded surprised, and rightly so. They weren't docked, they hadn't been for several hours, and they weren't carrying passengers of any kind.

"He's been badly hurt. He's in surgery now."

"_Surgery_?" It was Lucas' turn to give voice to his surprise. Shock was a better for it, he thought. He exchanged a brief disbelieving glance with Tony and then focused once again on the Commander. "How bad is it?"

After a moment, obviously trying to decide whether or not to be honest, Ford said, "It's pretty bad." He drew in a breath, almost as if he needed to steady himself. "He was stabbed." Before either younger man could say anything he pressed on, "Ortiz found him and called for help, but we have no idea when he was hurt, or who by."

"Or _what_," Lucas muttered, almost numbly. The thought of one of his friends being so seriously injured that they required surgery in order to save their life was a startling and sobering one. He swept his gaze unconsciously around the bridge, looking for the other familiar faces of the senior staff. It took him a moment to remember that they were all off-shift, that the night crew had taken over several hours earlier.

"Exactly," Ford said in agreement. They both knew very well never to assume anything in their line of work. Given their track record it could just as easily be some_thing_ that had attacked and hurt one of their own, as opposed to some_one_.

"You need me to sweep the logs and the feeds," he ventured.

"You got it," Ford confirmed, looking quietly grateful that he hadn't needed to ask.

"Okay." Lucas nodded, swiping his hands over his face to clear the last clinging remnants of sleep, going on to rake his hair back out of his eyes. "I'm on it." He was already making his way to the closest empty station, which just so happened to be O'Neill's.

From behind him as he went he heard Tony's voice. "What can I do, sir?" Lucas took a moment to appreciate his friend's desire to help and then got to work.

"Brody has two teams sweeping _seaQuest_ from top to bottom," the Commander responded, "but counting Darwin we only have two crewmembers on board capable of searching the aqua tubes for anything out of the ordinary."

Tony got the message. "I'll head to the moon pool right away, Commander."

"Thanks, Tony. And be careful."

"You got it, sir."

Lucas heard the Seaman turn and jog from the bridge but didn't take his eyes from the console even once, working swiftly to access the right systems and key in the correct sequences in order to call up everything that he needed. It would take him a little while to sweep through everything but he would work as quickly as possible, and as thoroughly as he could. If he missed something then someone else might get hurt and he couldn't bear the thought of anything like that happening, not if there was something he could do to try and prevent it.

Even when he felt the weight of Ford's gaze on him as the Commander watched from the Captain's chair Lucas didn't pause for so much as a second. With the safety of the crew on the line, he couldn't afford to do anything of the sort.

* * *

Frustration had never sat well with him, especially when it was connected to any kind of shortcoming or failure. It made his muscles tight with tension he couldn't shift, his jaw clenching almost angrily as he stood in the ward room waiting for the rest of the small group to arrive. That gave him far too much time to reflect on the search that had concluded less than twenty minutes prior to this meeting, and before long he found he couldn't stand still any longer. He had to pace. And so he paced. With his arms crossed tightly over his chest he paced around the table, eyes fixed down and forward on a nondescript point on the floor ahead of him.

God, he hated this feeling.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the doors opened and Captain Bridger walked in, followed directly after by Doctor Smith. They closed the doors behind them and Jim had to force himself to stop pacing and claim one of the seats at the table. There were only a few people present, thankfully, but the fact that the Doctor was one of them made him uncomfortable, and that in turn made him feel shame. It wasn't her fault that she had an ability that allowed her to pick up on the thoughts and feelings of others. If anything it was _his_ fault if she did pick up on them. He knew she didn't go digging around in other people's minds without invitation, and if she did catch anything going through his head it would be a direct result of the intensity with which it was rattling around in there.

Damned frustration.

"Thank you for coming," Captain Bridger said, opting to stand at the head of the table instead of sitting, gripping the backrest of the chair as he regarded them all in turn. "I don't want to waste anyone's time here, so let's just get down to brass tacks." He turned to Ford. "Status report, Commander?"

"We're holding position for the time being, Captain, pending your orders. We've got the launch bays on lockdown and we're scanning all frequencies for any communications. Even if they're not meant for us we're keeping our ears to the ground. Just in case."

Bridger gave a short nod, obviously approving. He turned his attention to Jim.

"My men couldn't come up with a damned thing," he said, unable to catch the light curse before it came out of his mouth. He found himself casting a fleeting apologetic glance in the Doctor's direction, not in the least surprised when she was ready with a soft smile of understanding. "We searched everywhere, every inch of the _seaQuest_, and we couldn't find any evidence of an intruder, let alone the intruder themselves."

"Piccolo and Darwin came up empty as well," Ford interjected. "We had Darwin do a thorough sweep of the exterior while Piccolo was checking the tubes. Darwin had already checked the tubes himself by that point, but we sent Tony through as well anyway to be sure we didn't miss anything."

"To be sure _Darwin_ didn't miss anything, you mean." Bridger's brows had quirked upward slightly.

"You and I both know that dolphin doesn't miss a thing, sir." That was obviously Ford's way of assuring the Captain he hadn't meant anything by his previous remark. Bridger seemed satisfied, turning his gaze to the Doctor.

With a sigh she said, a little wearily, "I couldn't find anything. There's not a single thought or feeling out of place anywhere on board. If there _is_ a presence on board that doesn't belong, I can't sense it."

"Is there anything that can _do_ that?" Jim found himself asking. "Hide from a psychic, I mean."

She spent a moment considering the question before dipping her head a little to one side, as if conceding. "It's possible, yes." She glanced briefly to Bridger as she said, "We know for a fact that our alien visitors can shield their minds completely. They could hide from me easily."

"So you think we might have another alien on board?" Jim hated the thought of that, if he was honest. He always felt so thoroughly out of his depth when it came to those things.

"We're not jumping to any conclusions at this point," Bridger cut in, essentially ending the speculation right there. Finally he turned his attention to the last member of their little group, who had taken the seat at the other end of the table almost as if he could distance himself from the situation and the gravity of it. His chin had been rested in the palms of both hands, his fingers curled up against his lower face, covering his mouth completely, but after a moment he obviously noticed that he was the centre of the Captain's focus.

Lucas lowered his hands and lifted his head a little, drawing in a deep breath. When he spoke at last he sounded just as tired as Doctor Smith, if not more so, and there was a heavy regret in his words that made Jim's heart ache for the kid. "The security systems haven't picked up any abnormalities. I went all the way back to us leaving New Cape Quest and I couldn't find any sign of us being boarded or infiltrated in any way." Lucas obviously wasn't satisfied with that. It was written all over his face.

"What about the camera feed? It must have picked up something near O'Neill's quarters around the time of the attack."

The teenager turned his attention to Ford. "You'd think so," he agreed a little grimly, "but there's _nothing_. I couldn't find any footage of anyone coming or going."

"Wait." Jim rocked forward in his seat, shaking his head. "That doesn't make any sense." He glanced to the others present. "What about Miguel? And the medical team? Me and Ford?"

Lucas was frowning as he shook his head. "Nothing."

"So you're telling us," Bridger said slowly, "that there is no movement of _any_ kind captured by the surveillance cameras? Even movement that we know it _should_ have captured?"

"That's exactly what I'm telling you," Lucas confirmed. His hands were knitted before him on the table.

Jim couldn't believe what he was hearing. And yet he didn't doubt it for a single second. "You're saying someone's wiped the feed."

When Lucas nodded it was silently, his jaw obviously clenched, no doubt from the same sense of frustration that Jim was struggling to shake. Turning his attention from the teenager to the Captain, he said, "So we've got an intruder on board who knows how to access and alter our systems." That, as they all knew, changed everything.

"And one who can somehow conceal themselves from psychic abilities." Bridger's hands were on his hips now, his face a mask of concern and contemplation. His mind had to be going a mile a minute as he considered their next move. Jim didn't envy him in the least. The Captain looked at them each in turn and finally settled his gaze on Ford. "Bring us about, Commander."

"Sir?"

"I want to head back to the Renford Station," he went on. "All of this started after we set out from there, after we helped with their repairs and supplies. Right now it's the only lead we have, and I intend to follow it."

Ford gave a nod. "Yes, sir."

"Lucas, keep digging in the surveillance systems, see if you can't find some kind of trail to follow." It was the teenager's turn to nod. "Lieutenant, I want another sweep of the boat. Go over every inch again with a fine toothed comb. Leave no stone unturned. We have an intruder _somewhere_ on this boat, not to mention whatever weapon they used to attack O'Neill. You and your men need to find them."

"Aye, sir." Jim couldn't make any promises but he would be damned if he kept coming up empty in front of everyone. He hated falling short of expectations, or running any kind of risk of looking the fool, and he was beyond determined to keep that from happening in this case. It wasn't just that, of course. It was personal now, after one of their own had been attacked and left fighting for their life.

Jim wanted to find whoever was behind this and kick their ass, even if it was only figuratively. He could hold out hope that it ended up being literal, but he would take whatever he could get at this rate.

"Dismissed."

The first one up from their seat, Jim wasted no time in heading out of the room, his mind on his mission, filled with a renewed sense of fierce determination. Whoever or whatever this son of a bitch was, and wherever they were hiding, Jim and his team would find them. And soon. No matter what.


	10. Wildfire

Aswas usually the case, word spread quickly through the _seaQuest_. By the time Lonnie emerged from her quarters and got her day started she had already caught wind of _something_ going on, but between a quick shower and an even quicker breakfast she had pretty much heard the whole story, or at least all the details that people knew by that point. Her stomach was churning, her mind was scattered, and her emotions were all over the place. To say she felt unsteady and uneasy would have been an understatement, but like everyone else on board she had a job to do.

She had reported to the bridge for her shift at the helm, as expected, and she had tried not to let her gaze linger on the seat normally occupied by Tim. Another member of the Communications team was manning the station now but it didn't feel right not seeing him sitting there, and not hearing his voice whenever there was some sort of status update to be reported.

Everyone felt on edge, tense and anxious, but most of them were doing a pretty good job of hiding it. It was in their training, she knew, for some of them it was even in their blood, those who had come from a long line of those who had served in one way or another. Commander Ford looked as though he had been carved from granite, stoic and stern and unshakeable. Lonnie couldn't help but envy him.

It was as she was vacating her position at the helm once her shift was done that she noticed something that hadn't occurred to her before.

Miguel wasn't at his station.

She couldn't help but be concerned, frowning to herself, but it struck her after a moment that perhaps it wasn't so strange for him to be missing given Tim's condition. Wouldn't he want to be at his best friend's side? But then, as that thought crossed her mind, she glanced once again to Commander Ford and couldn't help but wonder if that would really be permitted. It wasn't that the Commander was unfeeling, she had experienced first-hand just how compromising he could be when it came to the rules and extreme circumstances, but given the situation wouldn't he want everyone at their stations?

"Henderson." Captain Bridger was striding through the clamshell doors as he spoke. "If you're all done at the helm I'd like you to head down to the moon pool, see if you can give Ortiz a hand." He must have picked up on her hesitation, and the confusion behind it, because he elaborated, "He's pulled one of the WSKRS in for maintenance and we need them all up and running, especially at a time like this."

"Aye, sir." That answered the question of where Miguel was, at least. She gave the Captain a dutiful nod and then made her way off the bridge. All the way down through the _seaQuest_ she heard low chatter among the rest of the crew as they moved around, all of them discussing the possibility of having an intruder on board and where they might be hiding. When she stepped out of the maglev she had to pause and step back for one of Brody's security teams to pass on their search for any signs of said intruder. She watched them go, frowning all the while, and when they turned a corner and stepped out of sight she got herself underway again.

Stepping into the moon pool the first thing that struck her was the _quiet_ of the place, the only sounds that immediately greeted her those of the water lapping lazily at the sides of the large tank at its centre. Darwin was nowhere in sight, she noticed, but over the catwalk at the far end of the pool she found who was looking for. Miguel was crouched there, seemingly focused on the WSKR suspended just over the catwalk and off to one side, hanging over the water on a winch and pulley that she easily recognised could be twisted and turned so that its load could be angled as desired. From where she stood she saw one of the WSKR's panels on the catwalk, curved side down, exposing the sophisticated machine's inner workings. She couldn't see any of said workings from her vantage point, but as she watched Miguel selected a tool from an assortment in front of him and started in on something in the exposed section.

Using work to distract himself from what was going on was a good idea, Lonnie thought, and she was glad to see him keeping himself busy. Finally entering the space properly she moved across the room on her way to the steps leading up to the catwalk. Before she had even set her foot on the first step Miguel saw her for the first time and she recognised the fleeting rush of tension through his bared arms and shoulders. "Didn't mean to startle you," she said apologetically, holding her hands up, palms out. "Captain Bridger sent me down to give you a hand."

"Oh, I, uh—" Miguel shook his head, turning his eyes back to the WSKR and its exposed mechanisms and circuitry. "He didn't need to do that."

It was weird to hear someone like Miguel stumble or second-guess even in the smallest of ways. He was one of the most confident members of the crew, in her mind, one of those most at ease in his own skin. He had never struck her as the sort to doubt himself or anything he said or did.

Then again, it wasn't every day that someone found their best friend bleeding to death.

"Well, here I am anyway," she said as she moved a little closer, crouching down on the other side of the suspended WSKR, still unable to see what exactly he was working on. She watched him for a moment, from the way the tool in his hand just hung in his grasp to the way he kept his gaze averted from her. If she didn't know better she could have sworn he looked apprehensive. "How're you holding up?"

That got his attention. He lifted his eyes and met her gaze. But he didn't say anything.

"You and Tim are close," she began, wondering if she was making a mistake by broaching the subject with him. It wasn't so long ago that he had told her to keep her nose out of his business, for all intents and purposes. Was she crossing that line he had drawn in the sand between them? Was he about to remind her of it?

Miguel shook his head, almost as if he was about to dismiss the subject, and her, altogether, but after a moment of quiet he said, "Doctor Smith and the rest of the medical team will take care of him." He sounded tired. Again. He cleared his throat then and shifted his weight a little, adjusting his position, but it looked to Lonnie like he did it more for something to do than out of any kind of necessity. "He'll be okay."

It sounded to her like he was trying to convince himself as much as anything. Was that really so strange though? As she had said to herself, Miguel and Tim were close, so it made all the sense in the world for him to be so worried. Scared, even. "Yeah," she said, nodding her head with the sort of confidence that he normally exuded so effortlessly. At least that was the hope. "Yeah, he will. He'll be just fine." They couldn't really entertain the thought of things going any other way, could they?

Miguel just looked so worn down, so drained. In that moment it was all Lonnie could do to keep from reaching out a hand to offer him some small degree of comfort. She felt her hand twitch in the beginnings of that movement but managed to rein it in at the last moment. As tempting as it was, Miguel seemed to be trying to keep himself from thinking about it too much and the last thing she wanted to do was push him back in the wrong direction. She was supposed to be here to help, not harm.

When Miguel didn't say anything else for a while she went on, "The Captain probably sent me down here so you wouldn't be all on your own, anyway. I figure it's only a matter of time before he has us all buddying up for safety." When he lifted his gaze she offered him the faintest smile, wanting more than anything for the man across from her to mirror the expression back at her.

* * *

Miguel wasn't in the mood to smile. He wasn't in the mood to do much of anything, not just because of the gnawing, near-crippling guilt eating him up inside but because of how thoroughly exhausted he felt. After what had happened the previous night, a moment so horrific and unbelievable that he was trying with every scrap of strength and will he possessed to put it out of his mind completely, he hadn't had the chance to head back to his quarters and get any rest. There had been too much to do. Too much that he had been _told_ to do. Every inch of him felt heavy, aching from being on the go for so long, but he knew that there was no chance of that changing any time soon.

God, he needed to sleep.

But he couldn't. Not yet.

Some part of him thought that he might never be able to again, at least not without being plagued by the memory of what he had done. He could still feel the cold firm grip of the knife in his hand. He could still feel the heat of the blood.

"Miguel?"

He opened his eyes, not even remembering closing them, to find Lonnie watching him with obvious concern on her face. Before she could ask him if he was sure that he was all right he gave his head a shake and said, "Sorry. I'm fine. It's just—" She was still watching him, still studying him. That was dangerous. "I'm just worried, that's all." And then he ploughed on again, not wanting to give her a window to linger on the subject that he was so desperate to avoid. "Captain Bridger doesn't have anything to worry about, anyway. I'm almost done down here."

And then what? He had no idea.

"_One thing at a time, handsome."_

His skin crawled and he had to fight to keep the grimace off his face even as Lonnie said, "Still, it doesn't hurt to be cautious. We both had close calls with that Stormer a while back, remember?"

How could he forget? He still bore the scars of that creature's attack to his day, and would for a good while, if not the rest of his life. Miguel knew he was lucky that it hadn't done any deep, permanent damage. It could have easily torn his leg so badly that there was nothing Doctor Smith or anyone else could have done. He could have lost the leg altogether, or even his life. "I remember," he said, not wanting to leave Lonnie hanging yet again. He had already done that too many times.

"What are you doing down here anyway?" she asked, changing the subject and craning her neck a little to try and get a better look at the bared innards of the WSKR beside them. "I didn't get any specifics. You don't normally pull these guys up like this, do you? I don't think I've ever seen you do this before."

Miguel latched on to the opportunity to discuss something relatively normal, even if there was a still a tenuous connection with the wretched situation currently unfolding around him and everyone else he cared about. "They each have their scheduled routine maintenance, like any part of _seaQuest_, but—" But what he was doing wasn't scheduled _or_ routine. Anything but. "He was giving me a few weird readings after we left Renford Station, so I wanted to check him out."

Lonnie actually looked faintly amused. "_Him_?"

That time Miguel actually _did_ manage a smile, albeit a brief and fairly weak one. "Loner." He turned his gaze briefly on the device suspended over the moon pool and felt another pang of guilt. The WSKRS had always served him well, in his own way he had come to care for them as if they were alive in some fashion, and none of them deserved to be used the way he was using Loner right then. It felt like he was taking advantage of them. Of _him_.

"You're pretty fond of these guys, huh?"

Coming from anyone else that could have been a teasing remark but when he met Lonnie's gaze he saw the understanding there. She wasn't making light of his fondness for the WSKRS. If anything she seemed pleased by it.

"_She's attracted to you."_

He was lucky he didn't snap at that voice to shut up, instead taking a moment to collect himself, knowing that he was responding to two statements at once when he said, "Yeah."

In his head Irina made a low sound. Amusement, or something else? He hated that he couldn't tell.

Lonnie gave him another smile. "They're in good hands." She turned her eyes to Loner then, and laid a hand on his outer casing. "They're lucky they've got you looking out for them."

"_Ohh, and __**you're**__ attracted to __**her**__."_

Miguel's throat was uncomfortably dry and he had to avert his gaze, managing to do so just before Lonnie turned her eyes back to him. Her remark about how lucky the WSKRS were to have him looking out for them circled his mind and where normally those words would have made him feel a swell of pride now all he felt was shame. Briefly he turned his gaze up to the exposed section and the barely visible glint of light reflecting off a metal surface tucked away amidst all the circuitry and wiring.

"He really will be okay, you know."

The softness in Lonnie's voice drew his attention back to her, even though it was against his better judgement. He couldn't help the doubt that crept into his expression as he looked at her.

"Doctor Smith's going to take care of him, like you said," Lonnie went on, giving him a reassuring smile that made him feel all the more wretched because he knew he didn't deserve it in the slightest. "And as soon as she can she's going to find out who did this to him."

He couldn't help but tense at that. He tried not to but it was reflexive and unconscious, an involuntary tightening of every single muscle through his upper body. Hopefully she wouldn't notice. "How?" he asked, speaking before he could catch himself. In his mind he felt Irina's interest peak as well, reminding him of an animal on high alert.

"Word is she's going to try and read his mind as soon as he's recovered enough for her to be able to get through." Lonnie sounded quietly amazed that such a thing was possible.

For his part Miguel wasn't amazed so much as he was worried. He was worried not for himself if he was found out but what it would mean for everyone else, namely—

"_Like I said,"_ Irina cut in, her voice cool and sharp, _"one thing at a time."_

There was something ominous in the way she said those words, something dangerous that made Miguel's blood run cold. He had to work to pull in a breath and give Lonnie a nod that he hoped looked supportive, or at least understanding. He had no idea if he was even remotely successful and the only thing he could think of to keep himself from running the risk of losing his composure was to get back to what he had been doing before she had arrived. "Can you hand me that wrench?" As he spoke he gestured with the tool in his hand to another one in the assortment spread out between them.

Without a word beyond a simple and courteous, "Sure," Lonnie did as he asked, obviously content to stand by and wait until she was needed.

Miguel tried not to think about just how awful he was for taking advantage of her as well as Loner.

* * *

It wasn't difficult for her to keep her anger from bleeding through her connection with Miguel. She controlled what he felt from her and she had no intention of letting him pick up on anything that he might try to use against her in some fashion. It wasn't that she was worried about him doing something like that, but it would be more of a nuisance than she was willing to deal with, not to mention a waste of time. And time, as she knew, was as precious a commodity as currency in most cases.

This definitely wasn't the exception. If anything this was the perfect example.

Pacing once again around the room she was silently grateful that Evan was out running errands so she wouldn't have to deal with him watching her, almost as if he was waiting for something to go wrong. Big strong Evan, always ready to jump to her aid. But it wasn't often that she needed it, was it? In many ways, perhaps the ways that truly mattered, she was more powerful than Evan with all his stamina and muscle mass. While he wasn't dim-witted by any stretch of the imagination she was much more intelligent than him, not to mention more industrious and imaginative. And then of course there was the obvious.

All the physical strength in the world couldn't contend with her raw psychic power and its multitude of uses.

While she kept just enough of her attention on Miguel's actions and thoughts to be sure he wasn't trying anything he shouldn't be, she occupied the rest of her mind with the irritation that was the _seaQuest_'s doctor. She couldn't be called a problem, exactly, mainly because she would be easy enough to deal with, but it was the timing of the thing. She refused to consider it lucky that the woman, Henderson, had mentioned Smith's intentions to Miguel, but there was no denying that that in and of itself had been good timing. It was a window of opportunity that she didn't intend to allow to slam closed, not given what it could mean for her plans in the grand scheme of things.

They had only just gotten started, really, and as it was she was already considering the fact that they would likely have to accelerate their timetable, _her_ timetable, if only because Miguel seemed so very fond of courting danger by consistently conducting himself in ways that garnered far too much attention from those around him. If he had just held himself together and kept his head down everything would have been a lot simpler for everyone involved, and she wouldn't have had to take control the way she had. But he had forced her hand. She had warned him what would happen if he continued to test her patience, and he had ignored those warnings. Actions had to have consequences. He needed to learn.

She slowed herself to a halt and drew in a slow, deep breath. She felt the air fill her lungs, expanding them, and closed her eyes as she held it there. Through the connection she could feel the concern and the beginnings of dread in the mind of the man on the other end and she used his uncertainty and his unsteadiness to anchor and calm herself. It reminded her that she was in control, not just of herself but of another individual as well, that at any moment she could flick that switch and once again take the reins, figuratively and literally. _She_ had the power here, and that would continue to be the case until she had gotten what she needed.

Irina let out the breath, opening her eyes and smiling a slow and certain smile.

Dealing with a minor obstacle in the form of a lesser telepath wouldn't take long at all.

And maybe, if she was lucky, she would be able to enjoy herself in the process.


	11. Hijack

The headache was growing now, steadily increasing in strength with each renewed effort to find something that seemed not to exist. Under any other circumstances Wendy might have admitted defeat and told Nathan that there was nothing for her to find, but with Tim so badly wounded and no knowledge of the attacker's motives or ultimate goals, she couldn't afford to do any such thing. She had to persist and persevere, even if she ended up suffering for it.

Headaches passed. She knew that better than anyone. For most of her life she had been plagued by them, when she was young because her psychic abilities had been manifesting and urging to break free, and in later life when she strained herself and threatened to push past her limits. Like most psychics Wendy knew what her limitations were, or at least she _thought_ she did. The encounter with Charlie Ross had taught her that she had more power than she had originally thought, but the close-call with Clay had reminded her, and rather harshly, that there was always someone much stronger out there. Not only stronger, but more dangerous.

Remembering Clay made her wonder, as she sat at her desk in med bay awaiting Lieutenant O'Neill's arrival post-surgery. Sitting there with only the sounds of the submarine around her she could allow her mind to wander and speculate, spinning theories and suspicions this way and that, twisting and turning them until they made some sort of sense. Her brow furrowing, she couldn't help but wonder if perhaps this wasn't altogether unlike what had happened with Clay, who had always had an easy enough time keeping her out of his thoughts. If she had pushed herself she would have been able to breach his walls, he had always told her, but her courtesies and considerations had kept her from doing any such thing. Morals and ethics had meant little to Clay in the end, a man who had been consumed by his power and what it could give him, what it _had_ given him, but in the end that lack of restraint had been his undoing.

But there was no one unfamiliar on board. Wendy had scanned the ship multiple times and detected no one new, scanners had not identified any unrecognisable life signs, and Lieutenant Brody and his men had found no traces of additional personnel of any sort.

There was no one on board who could be concealing themselves from her.

But that meant—

A disturbance at the door shattered her thoughts and startled her back into the real world. As she turned on her stool she saw the medical team carefully escorting Lieutenant O'Neill into the room and as soon as the man was in sight she fixed Doctor Clarke with an inquiring and concerned look. She felt no sense of defeat or disappointment from the man, but without digging past what was on the surface she could glean nothing else.

"He's stable now," the surgeon said, prompting Wendy to let out a heavy sigh of relief. "We stopped the bleeding and repaired the damage. We're lucky the blade, or whatever it was, didn't do any damage to his vital organs, or we might not have been able to do anything for him."

Wendy didn't want to think about what might have been, the worst case scenarios. What mattered now was making sure Tim made the best possible recovery, and that was where she and her team came in. As the vitals were rattled off to her by one of the nurses who had assisted with the surgery she catalogued them all in her mind, all the while watching the Lieutenant's face as the team settled him in the bed for his recovery. Within a matter of minutes they had everything situated and secured and the machines were softly beeping and humming as they monitored the Communication Officer's condition.

When she thanked Doctor Clarke it felt insignificant, like the words fell short of what he had done not just for the Lieutenant but for the rest of the crew, but the man gave her a warm smile of understanding all the same and nodded his acknowledgement before taking his leave. Soon it was just her and O'Neill, and she couldn't help but be drawn to his side, just as she couldn't help but slide her hand into his.

"Just hang in there, Tim," she said to him softly, her voice little more than a whisper. "You're safe now." Even as she said the words Wendy couldn't help but wonder if that was true, not just for the man lying there before her but for all of them. It was certainly a promise that she couldn't keep, and perhaps shouldn't have made in the first place. Even if O'Neill couldn't hear her, she would hate to let him down.

She would just have to do everything in her power to make sure that didn't happen.

* * *

"You don't need to do this."

"_Don't tell me what I need, Miguel."_

"You said she was no threat to you."

"_She isn't."_

"Then why—"

"_Repeatedly asking stupid, pointless questions won't change the inevitable, Miguel. This needs to be done."_

"But—"

It was like a wave of searing heat flooded through his chest, burning the breath from his lungs and making every muscle tighten painfully. He had to clutch at the wall close to his side to keep from buckling to his knees, fighting for air that he just couldn't get.

"_I've warned you not to challenge me. Why do you keep fighting this?"_

He could breathe again so suddenly that he almost choked on the first rush of oxygen that made it down to his lungs, very nearly losing control of the short fit of coughing that overcame him. "They—" The words briefly stuck in his throat and he had to wait a moment to try again. "They're my _friends_."

"_And you're making this worse for them."_ Irina's voice had taken on an unnerving hissing quality. _"Every time you defy and resist me, you're just making this worse for them. Your precious friends. Don't you want to spare them?"_ When he didn't respond straight away she went on, _"All you have to do is follow my orders and no one else has to get hurt."_

Except Wendy. Miguel squeezed his eyes shut and tried to get control of his breathing, clutching at a piece of exposed pipe to his left to keep himself on his feet.

"_As I said, some things are inevitable. Remember you forced my hand, Miguel, and this is yet another consequence of your attempts to deceive me."_

His head dropped, his grip on the exposed piping tightening in frustration and despair, the sounds of the _seaQuest_'s engines drumming and droning all around him. It was near impossible to find any kind of privacy on board a submarine, but once again he had opted to use his knowledge of the vessel's layout to his advantage. With this much noise from the nearby engines no one would be able to overhear his voice as he spoke, seemingly to himself, and in this tucked away conduit so far back in the boat he was unlikely to be discovered. Knowledge of the maintenance schedules didn't hurt, either.

"_Once this is done it's back to business as usual. And once you get me what I need, you can get back to your life."_

How was he supposed to get back to his life after all of this? How was he supposed to go on as if nothing had happened?

"_That's really not my problem, handsome."_

"Stop."

"_Stop what?"_

"You _know_ what."

He felt her amusement even as he heard her ripple of laughter. _"It's hardly my fault that you __**are**__. I'm simply stating a fact."_ The amusement faded from her presence in his mind. _"And don't think you've managed to distract me, either."_

That hadn't been his intention, even if it would have been a relief.

"_Well?"_ The single word was expectant, with a hint of impatience.

Once again tightening his grip on the piping and drawing in a deep breath as he straightened to his full height, he ground out a short but stern response. "No." He wasn't going anywhere if it meant causing someone else harm. After what had happened to Tim he wasn't going to play any part in it.

Irina let out a sound that was practically a growl. _"For someone so intelligent, you really are a needlessly maddening idiot sometimes."_

Miguel drew in another breath, feeling steadier this time as he said with more conviction, "I won't do it." No matter how much pain she made him feel, he wouldn't do it.

Her voice was cool and unwavering as she said, _"Oh yes you will."_

And then it was like he was being yanked backwards with so much force it felt as though it should have snapped his spine. The invisible force hurled him back hard and fast and the lights and the sounds of the _seaQuest_ were left behind as he was thrown into the dark. Something stopped his movement, just as hard and fast, and pain crashed around and through him in a crippling burst. From somewhere in the dark there came a thunderous slamming sound, almost deafening, echoing all around him as he struggled to comprehend where he was and how.

It was like the dream and yet not. And he had been _awake_.

Had Irina somehow rendered him unconscious?

Something flickered in the darkness, light and shape coalescing until an image formed ahead in the endless black. And the image was moving. As Miguel watched he recognised the exposed pipes and close walls of the conduit he had been standing in moments before, and with a dawning sense of horror he saw the perspective tilt and lower as hands raised, coming into view.

_His_ hands.

Miguel raised them before him much like the image in the darkness and as the bottom of his stomach threatened to drop out realisation dawned with terrible, inescapable clarity.

As he lifted his eyes back to the image before him he saw that it was moving. It was leaving the conduit. Moving through the boat. Purposefully.

"No." Miguel rushed forward only to be stopped short by an invisible wall that refused to yield no matter how hard he kicked and pounded at it with his feet and fists. "Irina!" His voice echoed back to him in the surrounding darkness, the unreachable image before him showing the steady passage of his body as it made its way through the _seaQuest_. "Irina! _Irina_!" He continued to pound at the wall, throwing himself against it with every scrap of strength that he possessed, desperate to stop what his captor, his tormentor, had called the inevitable. "_Irina, __**STOP**__!"_

* * *

A rush of exhilaration swept through her at the sound of his voice crying out, little more than a distant echo in the back of her mind. It was easily ignored, simple enough to tune out if that was what she wanted, but she let him rage and plead and bellow his futile demands as she made her way through the ship. None of it would amount to anything. He was as powerless now as he was in his sleep and she had made sure that that would be the case. He should have known better than to fight it after what had happened to his friend, after Irina had taken control and used his body to drive the knife into the belly of the meddlesome Communications Officer.

But then, she supposed, she hadn't allowed him to keep his awareness, his consciousness, that time. She had subdued him completely, essentially shutting down every piece of his mind, so that from his perspective it seemed as if he had lost time. A blackout, for all intents and purposes. That wouldn't be the case this time. She wanted him to _see_ what she did, what she was using every piece of him to do.

There was nothing else in the world like what she was doing now, no other thrill that could compare.

She could walk in his shoes, literally, and see through his eyes. She could smile Miguel's smile and laugh Miguel's laugh. Speak with his voice and touch with his hands. As she carried herself through the corridors the people she passed saw one of their own, trusting in seeing him that nothing was out of the ordinary. They saw one of the bridge crew, the Sensor Chief, one of the senior staff, walking from one place to another with purpose, and they left him to it.

Irina couldn't have asked for anything better.

Why Miguel had to fight and defy her, why he had to waste his energy refusing and resisting her, she had no idea. She had told him in his mind, when he had been unconscious, that this experience didn't have to be unpleasant. It was only by his choice that it _was_. If he stopped to think about it from a pragmatic point of view perhaps he would see the sense in swimming _with_ the tide as opposed to against it. If things carried on as they were he was more likely to drown in his own fruitless insubordination than he was to gain any sort of ground against her.

It was a shame. It really was. He had so much _potential_.

"_Please don't do this. Irina, __**please**__, don't—"_ She tuned his voice out effortlessly, leaving him to buck and thrash against the inescapable prison she had sealed him in. He could see and hear and even _feel_ everything from where he was, but could do nothing about any of it.

_You chose this_, she told him, not in the least surprised when her reprimand only seemed to rile him more. He continued to fight and scream inside of her but she heard none of it, leaving herself free to concentrate on her work.

Having used his mental map of the boat's layout to get herself to where she needed to be, she rounded the corner of the med bay entrance in Miguel's body, one of his hands on the doorframe as she stood there. She wanted it to seem as if he was waiting for permission to enter, recognising the doctor's authority in her element. Irina felt no such thing, of course, but Miguel Ortiz did, and that was who Smith would see, and hear, and feel.

"Miguel," she greeted when she noticed him standing there, turning her attention from the monitors by the Communications Officer's bedside. He was still unconscious, and from the looks of the doctor's face that had been the case ever since he had been returned from surgery.

Good. She hadn't missed her window of opportunity.

She offered the woman a small smile, finding that the expression came easily to Miguel's face and fit naturally. He _did_ have a nice smile, she had to admit. As she had told him so very recently, when she called him handsome it wasn't just because she knew it pushed his buttons. In her own words, she was stating a fact. "I thought I'd stop by," she said with his voice, "see how he's doing." She gave a little nod of his head towards the man in the bed.

"Oh, of course. Come on in." Smith's voice was so soft, feather light, and Irina found herself wondering how the woman managed to command any sort of authority or respect when she spoke like that. "He hasn't regained consciousness yet, but Doctor Clarke and I are optimistic that he'll make a full recovery." After a pause she added, "With time, of course."

Irina took her time looking the wounded man up and down, letting her gaze linger on his face in particular. That was what a concerned friend would do, wasn't it? "That's good." She looked to the doctor again. "Do you really think you can find out who did this to him?" It wasn't difficult for her to make Miguel sound concerned, even a touch hopeful. She was a fair actress. Evan had once said she had missed her calling, though they had laughed about it after the fact.

Smith looked puzzled for a moment and then it obviously dawned on her what had happened. "I should have known word would get out," she said, nodding her head. "I think it wouldn't hurt to _try_." She touched a hand to O'Neill's arm. "But I want to make sure his mind has recovered enough from the shock of the attack to be able to withstand something like that."

Typical. Irina managed to stifle her scoff of disdain. On some level Smith _had_ to know that scanning a person's memories wouldn't do any real harm, unconscious or otherwise. She was just afraid. Overcautious. Pathetic.

It was a good thing she had thoroughly shielded Miguel's mind from the other woman's scans, only allowing her to read what Irina herself put there for her to find. Her disdain for the other psychic was at an all-time high as she stood there in another's body, getting her first real decent look at her. From Miguel's perspective she looked small, and even weaker as a result. No threat at all.

But still, she couldn't afford to let it get out that the _seaQuest_'s Sensor Chief was acting out of character.

Knowing that Miguel could see and hear everything that was going on she decided to twist the knife of his guilt that little bit more, saying to the doctor, "This is my fault." It _was_ his fault, and Irina wanted him to know that. She wanted him to hear the words in his own voice and she wanted them to sink in and take root. She wanted him to remember this moment.

"Oh, Miguel." Smith took the bait, as Irina had known she would, rounding the bed and coming to stand much closer, close enough that she could lay her hand on the Sensor Chief's arm. "That's not true," she went on with a small shake of her head. "You found him and called for help. It's because of you that we got him here in time to help him. What happened to Tim was _not_ your fault."

Irina turned Miguel's eyes down to Smith, meeting and holding the other woman's gaze for a moment before she said with his voice, "Yes. It was."

And then, in the same moment that some kind of creeping doubt showed in Smith's eyes, Irina struck.

With Miguel's arms she reached out, easily manoeuvring the one the woman had been touching to break the contact, moving so quickly and so purposefully that Smith didn't see the danger coming until it was too late. Irina used the man's hands, _strong_ hands, to take Smith by either side of her face, his fingers burying into her hair and pressing to the scalp beneath. The instant that contact was established Irina unleashed, letting down her walls in the same moment that she reached out and collapsed Smith's entirely, battering against them with enough force that the other woman couldn't even give voice to her shock. No sooner had those walls crumbled under the onslaught than Irina was ploughing into Smith's mind with the force of a speeding freight train, flooding and swarming and utterly overwhelming it.

There was no fight, no resistance, no chance for the other woman to react or even attempt to defend herself. Irina felt Smith's body buckle and took Miguel's hands from her head in time to catch the body as it slumped, guiding it down to the ground gently instead, not to protect the woman from harm but to ensure there would be no noise as she landed.

In the back of his own mind, in the prison of her making, Miguel screamed and shouted and cursed, hammering and battering and pounding at the walls she had closed around him. Irina let her gaze, _his_ gaze, linger on the unconscious body on the floor, and then on the one in the bed, before turning his body around and leaving by the same door she had come through, quietly closing it behind her with a smile on Miguel's face.


	12. Associations

With his hands on his hips Jonathan brought his gaze up from Lucas' station and turned his eyes to meet Bridger's. "It doesn't make any sense."

"I agree with you, Commander," the Captain returned, one hand on the back of the teenager's chair as he returned his attention to the information displayed on the screen. Lucas had called up his results from his continued investigations for them to look over but all they had now were more questions and not a single answer in sight.

"I didn't see any signs that anyone had tampered with the system, _any_ of the systems, when we came back aboard after leave," Lucas said to them. "I ran every diagnostic program I have to look for any and all anomalies and nothing came out."

"So there's no chance they disguised whatever this is as something else?"

Lucas looked up at him, shaking his head. "It would have flagged as some kind of patch, at the very least. And if this is a virus as opposed to some kind of deliberate physical sabotage then it's the most sophisticated coding I've ever seen in my life." The teenager allowed himself to sound suitably impressed by the idea, but Jonathan easily picked up on the extreme scepticism in their Chief Computer Analyst.

"So what are we dealing with here?" Bridger's frustration was starting to shine through. Jonathan could hear the beginnings of it in his voice now.

"This has to have something to do with Renford," Jonathan said to the other man. "You said so yourself, Captain, all of this started after we left the station. And then there's the fact that their repairs weren't even as extensive as we were led to believe before our arrival."

"That might not be so suspicious," Lucas pointed out. "With all due respect to their staff, it might have seemed more serious to them than it did to our team."

Bridger considered that for a moment before saying with a bob of his head towards their youngest crewmember, "He has a point, but it's still worth investigating." He stood to his full height then, adding, "I just wish we had some clue what this was all about."

Jonathan was about to respond with further speculation on the subject when a distinctive voice came over the speakers, loud and obviously distressed.

"Hello? Doctor Smith is hurt. Someone needs to help her."

Lucas was already scrambling out of his chair. "That's Dagwood."

God, what now?

* * *

Doctor Smith wouldn't wake up. It didn't seem to matter how many times he tried, how many times he said her name, and he had even gently shaken her shoulder more than once. She just wouldn't open her eyes.

But she _was_ breathing. That was good.

Dagwood didn't know much about helping people when they were hurt but he had been shown how to check if people were breathing, and if their hearts were beating. He had checked Doctor Smith for that too and felt the light drumming against his fingers that told him she was alive. That was good.

But the fact that she wouldn't wake up was bad.

He had come to see Tim, to see if he was okay now, or at least feeling better, but when he had arrived he had seen that Tim was sleeping. Dagwood would have left then, and he had been turning to do just that and go back to his work, but he had seen a hand on the floor. There shouldn't have been a hand on the floor. So he had moved closer, seeing the arm attached to the hand, and then he had seen Doctor Smith's face.

Dagwood didn't know why Doctor Smith was on the floor but it didn't seem good. It _felt_ bad. So he had called for help. He wasn't sure if he had done it right but he didn't think it was good to leave Doctor Smith on the floor on her own. He had thought about picking her up and putting her on a bed but when he had been shown how to check for breathing and if hearts were still beating he had been told not to move people if he didn't know how they were hurt.

He didn't know how Doctor Smith was hurt. He just knew that she _was_.

"Dagwood!"

"Lucas." It wasn't just Lucas, Dagwood saw then, but Commander Ford and the Captain too. They started to talk rapidly, obviously worried about Doctor Smith as well, and Dagwood had trouble keeping up with it all, suddenly feeling very out of place and very in the way. He tried to shrink back as much as he could but there was a wall behind him and beds on either side. He had nowhere to go.

"Dagwood, can you get her up on the bed for us?"

He looked at the Captain and then nodded. "Okay." Bending down he easily scooped Doctor Smith up off the floor and gently placed her on the bed on his other side. He made sure that he was careful. He didn't want to hurt her any more if she was already hurt. "She won't wake up." He looked at the Captain, the Commander, and Lucas in turn, pulling back from the bed and beginning to wring his hands.

"You did the right thing calling for help, Dagwood," Commander Ford said to him and that made him feel a little bit better but he was still worried about Doctor Smith. What if she _never_ woke up? What would they do then?

Dagwood didn't know the answers to any of those questions. What he _did_ know was that he needed to stay out of the way and let much smarter people look after Doctor Smith. And so that was exactly what he would do.

* * *

"First O'Neill and now Wendy?" Nathan found himself pacing from one end of the ward room to the other and back again, a repetitive cycle of frustration and concern. Two of his crew were in med bay, currently unresponsive, with no clues as to how exactly they had ended up there. At least with O'Neill they had _some_ clue, his very obvious injury explaining his presence in med bay, but the why of it was still thoroughly unclear, and the perpetrator was nowhere to be found.

Jonathan shook his head, obviously thinking something along the same lines as his commanding officer. "We don't know that Wendy was attacked. For all we know she fainted. It wouldn't be the first time." He looked around at the faces of those gathered, as if looking for any other points of view.

Lieutenant Brody didn't keep him waiting long. "But so soon after what happened to Tim? That's a hell of a coincidence." He set his hands palms-down on the table. Nathan could read the frustration in the other man's frame easily. James Brody was not a man all that familiar with, not to mention fond of, being bested by the enemy.

The problem was, who _was_ the enemy? It was a hell of a lot more difficult to defeat an opponent when you had absolutely no information on them.

"She said she was going to try and read his mind to find out what happened. Maybe that's what caused her to collapse," Lucas ventured then, raking one hand slowly through his thick hair in that way he always did when he was at something of a loss. The unruly mop flopped back into more or less the same position he had pushed it from.

"She's read minds before. Has she ever reacted like this?" Even as he asked the question Nathan suspected he knew the answer. He had been present many times when Wendy had used her abilities and he had never seen them have this sort of effect on her before.

Jonathan sat back a little in his seat. "Only once, that I know of." He lifted his gaze to meet Nathan's. "When we found The Avatar."

Setting his hands on his hips Nathan said, "But The Avatar was a psychic himself. O'Neill's not a psychic."

"At least not that we know of." Lucas was ready to meet his gaze when he lowered it to the teen where he sat towards the end of the table. The Computer Analyst had knitted his fingers together not far from his face, and he quirked his brows upward as if to say _it's possible_.

But Nathan wasn't convinced. "He's not." With something of a huff he went on, "Of course, the only way to know that for certain is to ask the one person we can't speak to." Wendy would know. "Even if he is, Wendy would have mentioned something before now."

Again it was Lucas who spoke up, shaking his head slowly one way and then the other. "She had no idea about Tony's latent abilities."

"Latent abilities that haven't amounted to much since all of that trouble with Clay Marshall," Jonathan pointed out in response, turning his head to look at the teenager who just offered a shrug in return. After a moment Lucas' eyes narrowed a little and Nathan recognised the expression well. Something had occurred to him, and he was turning the idea over and over in his mind, trying to solve the puzzle.

"What is it, Lucas?"

The teenager paused, as if only just noticing he had drawn any sort of attention. As he lowered his hands from close to his face he said, "Clay Marshall," and at first that was _all_ he said. It wasn't until Nathan tilted his head inquiringly that Lucas went on. "That's the only other time we've seen Doctor Smith in a similar condition."

"But Clay Marshall's dead," Jonathan saw fit to point out. "We recovered what was left of him after he blew himself to hell."

"Yes," Nathan acknowledged, "and he nearly took half the boat with him when he did it." He sighed, looking at the small gathering who had joined him in this brainstorming session. With the beginnings of a frown he said, "Still, Lucas has a point. Who else do we know that could affect a psychic in that way, but another psychic?"

Jonathan sat forward in his seat again, setting his elbows on the table and emphasising a little with his hands as he spoke. "But there are no intruders on board. We've checked everywhere—" he glanced at Brody briefly then, who held up two fingers without saying a word, "—_twice_, and come up empty-handed both times. We can't find any evidence of anyone on board who doesn't belong here."

"What about people who _do_ belong?" Nathan returned, meeting his First Officer's gaze evenly. "When was the last time we took aboard new personnel of any kind?" After a glance at Brody he amended, "Military _or_ science."

Jonathan and their Security Officer exchanged thoughtful looks, before the former turned his attention back to Nathan. "We'll have to check the ship's logs but we had a few new crewmembers join the tour a few weeks before our last shore leave."

"Check their backgrounds," Nathan said, seeing Brody nod firmly in acknowledgement even as he went on. "Contact anyone you need to in order to verify their credentials and records. For all we know we have some kind of saboteur in our midst." That was a sobering thought, _very_ sobering, and one that made Nathan uncomfortable, and even a little angry. To think that someone had slipped onto his boat with ill intentions was almost enough to make him forget himself, and his need to maintain his composure in front of his crew. With a glance at Lucas he added, before the two officers could take their leave, "Pay close attention to anyone with any kind of computer-based background or training. Whoever it is behind all of this, they obviously have experience, and the skill to back it up."

"Yes, sir." Both men spoke the words to him almost in unison before they headed out of the room with purpose. Nathan took a moment to watch them go, allowing both himself and Lucas time to absorb all that had been discussed.

It was a little over a minute later that Lucas broke the silence, his voice lowered, almost reluctant. "You really think we might have some kind of psychic hacker on board, Captain?"

With a sigh Nathan met the teenager's pale gaze and after several seconds of continued quiet he shook his head. "I think, at this point," he said, "_anything_ might be possible." And they couldn't afford to dismiss any theory out of hand just because it seemed outlandish. The crew of the _seaQuest_ knew by now never to do any such thing.

* * *

It was getting harder and harder to concentrate. Near impossible, actually. And the harder he tried to focus, the less focused he became. With a heavy sigh of frustration he rocked back on his heels and rubbed his hands roughly over his face. He went on to forcefully push his hair back, as if that would help his vision and mind to clear. It was a futile hope and an equally futile effort but he didn't know what else to do. He had briefly debated coffee but that would mean heading to the galley and facing the scrutiny of other members of the crew, and at that point _any_ level of attention turned in his direction was unwelcome.

Any time he took his attention from what he was trying to do he saw the scene playing over and over in his mind, able to recall it with sickening clarity and ease. It was unbidden every time, an unwelcome reminder of what he had done. His body, his voice, his hands. As far as Miguel was concerned he might as well have assaulted Doctor Smith himself, literally, rather than simply being a vessel for her attacker. His body had been the conduit for Irina's attack and that was more than enough for Miguel to feel at fault.

First Tim, and now Wendy.

Who would be next?

Miguel rocked back even further until he ended up sitting on the ground instead of crouched, his knees crookedly drawn up with his arms draping limply over them. His eyes were stinging not just from exhaustion now but from that guilt that was threatening to eat him up inside, and the fear of what was to come, what would happen to other people he cared about if he didn't keep going.

Because he had to keep going. For the sake of the rest of the crew he had to keep going. For the sake of his _family_, he had to keep going. Miguel didn't even want to think about what Irina might be able to do to his family with whatever information she had gathered about them from his mind, because he wasn't so naïve that he thought she hadn't already dug out every little detail about them that he possessed. Names, addresses, contact details, particulars about schedules and routines. There was no limit to the amount of damage she could do with that information.

And it was his fault that she had it.

Miguel pulled in a breath, long and deep, and held it until his lungs felt strained. When he let it out he rolled his shoulders and got himself back into a crouch. With one last rub of his hands over his face he got back to work, and this time it was much easier to focus. Reminding himself of what was at stake cleared his head and helped him to do what needed to be done.

The faster he did that, the faster he got Irina what she wanted, the sooner his loved ones would be out of danger.

* * *

Tony had picked up a shadow. A rather _large_ shadow.

Dagwood had found him as he'd been coming out of the mag lev and had latched on, at least figuratively. He had been following Tony ever since. The big guy was clearly out of sorts, making low whimpering sounds to himself and rubbing the side of his head with the backs of his fingers in that way he did when he didn't know what to do with himself, or when something had upset him. The way he bowed his head when he was in that kind of mood made Tony think of a dog he'd had when he was young, whenever it got yelled at for peeing on the carpet. Dagwood looked decidedly sheepish and cowed, but the question was why.

So Tony had asked him. And he'd gotten as much of the whole story as he could get from the GELF. He had already known about the attack on Tim that had left the Lieutenant unconscious and in a bad way, but hearing about the Doc's condition was a shock to say the least. A lot of people didn't realise just how strong the Doc was, an inner strength that wasn't to be underestimated. Tony had seen that strength pretty early on, that quiet ferocity that most people wouldn't know how to recognise without it being worn on the surface for all to see. It wasn't the same kind of strength the women in the Piccolo family possessed, theirs being much bolder and more obvious, but Tony still knew better than to underestimate it.

With no better idea for what to do, and nowhere pressing to be until a little later he had decided to head back to his and Lucas' room in the hopes that the kid would be there. Lucas tended to have the inside scoop on a lot of things thanks in large part to his role as Head Tech Genius or whatever his actual title was, but also because of his close connection with the Captain. Bridger was like a father to Lucas and anyone with at least one eye and even half a brain cell could see that. You didn't have to be a genius of Wolenczak's calibre to figure it out.

Dagwood continued to follow behind him all the way to the door at the end of the corridor, and then all the way into the room once Tony swung said door open to find just the person he had been looking for. Not surprisingly Luke was sitting at the room's single desk, apparently hard at work on something. He didn't even look up from the screen in front of him until Tony spoke, raising his voice to say, "You got any idea what the hell's goin' on on this tug?" He glanced behind him to see Dagwood lingering in the doorway, looking thoroughly uncomfortable in such a cramped space. Tony waved a hand exaggeratedly to get the GELF to come all the way inside.

"Huh?" Lucas blinked and looked up. "Oh."

If Tony had to guess, he would say the kid hadn't realised he had company. That seemed to be going around these days.

When a few more seconds passed with no response, Tony quirked both brows upward.

"Oh, right." Lucas had briefly gone back to his work, but peeled himself away again long enough to say, "Honestly? No one has a clue." With a sigh he indicated his screen and added, "I'm just trying to make sense of all of _this_." When Tony moved closer, with Dagwood shuffling along to shadow him, the teenager took that as a cue to proceed. "Captain Bridger asked me to keep digging into our surveillance problem."

"The whole no footage thing?" They had talked about it briefly.

"Yeah," Lucas acknowledged. He sighed again and shook his head. "I can see _what_ they did, I just can't see _how_."

"What?" Tony screwed his face up in confusion. "I thought you knew these things inside and out."

"I _do_." Lucas sounded frustrated. Maybe even a little annoyed. "That's the problem." With a sharp gesture at the computer in front of him he went on, "I can tell that the cameras aren't recording any new footage, and that any and all existing footage dating back several days has been erased, but—" He cut himself off with a sigh that was just as sharp as that gesture moments earlier.

Dagwood made a low sound, equal parts confusion and curiosity. "But what?" It was the first time he'd spoken since Tony had gotten the story about Wendy out of him.

Lucas cast a glance in the GELF's direction. "Normally I'd be able to trace it back to a source, find out where the hacker did all this from."

"But you can't?" Dagwood asked the question quietly, almost apprehensively.

"No." Lucas practically grumbled the word, obviously irritated by that fact. "It's almost like whoever's behind this knows my methods and intentionally worked _around_ them, concealing the pathways I'd normally trace and bypassing all my usual checkpoints. And they've rerouted all of their command codes through the tertiary relays."

Tony's head felt like it was spinning a little. He blinked. "What you just said makes zero sense to me."

Lucas tossed him a glare that was half-hearted at best. "It means that I'm going to have to write a whole new algorithm and come at this from an entirely different angle, one I've never tried before."

"Yeah," Tony said slowly, drawing the word out. "I'm still not gettin' it, Luke." He gave the kid a clap on the back. "But I'll take your word for it." He jumped back to something Lucas had said a few moments earlier. "So who could _do_ that anyway? I mean—" he shrugged, "—they'd have to be pretty smart to do that, right?"

"Or, like I said," Lucas said, "they'd have to know _exactly_ how I do my job. As in every single detail of how I work with the systems."

Tony frowned, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Dagwood mimicked his expression after a moment. "But how many people would know that stuff? That's some pretty specific knowledge right there."

There was a troubled look on Lucas' face when he looked between them, turning his eyes back to the computer once again as he said, "Exactly." With another shake of his head, he added, "The only people I can think of—" He cut himself off, looking at Tony anew, that troubled look intensifying.

"What? Who are they? _Where _are they?"

Lucas' tone was grave. "They're on board the _seaQuest_." He glanced to Dagwood and then back to Tony. "It's a member of the crew."

That was exactly what Tony had been hoping the kid _wouldn't_ say.


	13. Closing In

"Hey, Miguel. I've been looking all over for you."

The voice startled him so much he almost cracked his head on the open hatch he was leaning through. At the last second he managed to catch himself, hearing the soft laugh of apology that came from out in the corridor before Brody said, "Sorry, man. I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine." It wasn't, but Miguel was just glad that Brody hadn't been able to see what he had been doing inside said hatch. As he extricated himself from the awkward space and went about closing the hatch without so much as glancing the Security Officer's way, he asked, "Did you need something?" He was hoping the answer was no but he knew that wasn't the response he was going to get. The Lieutenant wouldn't have tracked him down for nothing.

"Yeah, if you've got time." After a second Brody added, "Do you need a hand with that?"

"No, I've got it." He didn't want to risk the other man getting a look at what was on the other side of the wall. As quickly and as thoroughly as possible he sealed the hatch and shoved what few tools he was carrying in his various pockets. Only then, once he was sure he had collected himself and gotten past the worst of the alarm he'd felt upon Brody's arrival, did he look the Lieutenant in the eye.

Brody was standing with his hands on his hips, and there was a subtle tension in his shoulders that made Miguel think the other man was a little on edge, but he told himself it was nothing that wasn't to be expected given the circumstances.

He hated himself for even attempting to brush it off that way.

Thankfully Brody started speaking again before the silence could become any more uncomfortable than it had already been. "I never got a chance to talk to you about what happened with O'Neill."

Suddenly Miguel's blood felt a lot hotter than it had any right to, burning through his veins, and he became all too aware of the sound of his own heartbeat. It was thunderously loud in his own ears for a few seconds. "W-What—" He cleared his throat and tried to think of something to do with his hands that wouldn't attract attention the way continuously flexing and opening them would. Shoving them in his pockets would come off as too casual. He ended up crossing his arms over his chest. If nothing else Brody would probably write it off as Miguel feeling uncomfortable about discussing what had happened to his best friend.

That wasn't all that far from the truth.

Brody was frowning a little. "Yeah." He studied Miguel for a few moments before going on, "I just mean that I didn't get any details from you at the time. Specifics, you know?"

"Oh." Brody wanted to ask questions, the routine kind that any investigating officer would. "Oh, right." He thought he did a fairly good job of looking like he was having a hard time keeping track of everything that had happened, and by all rights he should have. That, like his discomfort discussing the topic, was pretty close to the truth. "Yeah, of course." His shoulders were starting to ache. Was he tense?

_"Tense would be an understatement."_

It was nothing short of a miracle that Brody's head was turned completely to look back over his shoulder when the voice sounded in Miguel's head. That meant the Lieutenant missed the very real start of surprise that gripped his whole frame and jolted him on the spot.

Irina had been quiet for so long that he had—not forgotten her exactly, because that was impossible given all that had happened, but part of him had grown accustomed to that quiet. He had gotten comfortable with it.

"_That was your mistake,"_ she said to him, her tone lazily chiding.

When Brody turned to face him again Miguel had, thankfully, managed to compose himself again. "You got a few minutes now?" he asked, jabbing a thumb back over his shoulder. "If I'm not interrupting whatever you're doing here, I mean." He started to gesture, a little uncertainly, towards the hatch he had found Miguel leaning through.

Shaking his head, perhaps a little too emphatically, Miguel said, "No, no, it's fine." He cleared his throat again. "Where, uh—" The corridor didn't seem like the best place.

Brody gave him half a smile. "Ward room."

Of course. That should have been obvious.

Miguel gave a nod and then followed after the Lieutenant, the two of them covering the distance without a word. Brody wasn't known for being the quiet type, but given what was going on it made sense that the Security Officer wasn't his usual chatty and easy-going self. Yet one more thing for Miguel to feel a pang of guilt about.

He wanted to ask how Wendy was doing, if she was going to be okay, but he couldn't form the question. He almost didn't dare to try. It felt like his words would change on him on the way out and he would say something stupid and damning instead and then everything would go to hell.

"_Before you could even say sorry, handsome."_

A cold lump of renewed dread had formed in his stomach by the time they reached the ward room. Brody opened the doors for him, and closed them behind him as well, waving for him to take a seat before doing the same thing himself. When Miguel sat it was a little hesitantly that he did so, before he reminded himself that Brody was just going to ask standard questions and all he had to do was stick to the very simple story Irina had already fed him.

But the first question out of the other man's mouth caught him off guard to say the least. "You sure you're okay?"

Miguel blinked, meeting Brody's gaze without the first clue how to respond.

"You seem kinda—" The Lieutenant made a light waving gesture with his hands. "I don't know. You seem off."

"Off?"

Brody's fleeting smile only touched one corner of his mouth and it was apologetic. "Maybe that's a stupid question," he admitted, giving a small shrug. "I mean, I guess I'd be all over the place too if I was in your shoes."

_You don't know the half of it._

The shallow laughter that Miguel heard came from inside his head and nowhere else. Irina was obviously amused by the exchange.

"Look." Brody crossed his arms loosely on the table and leaned forward a little. "I get it. Like I said, if I was in your position and I'd found O'Neill like that, I'd be struggling to keep it together too."

Miguel had a hard time keeping himself from sighing miserably. He wasn't reassured by how obvious it was that he wasn't feeling himself, especially not since he had been genuinely trying to act otherwise.

"I'm pretty sure everyone on board would agree with me," Brody went on. "And if I didn't have to ask these questions, I wouldn't do it. But you know I have to, right?"

Why did Jim have to be so understanding about it? And how was it worse that he _was_? Why was the sympathy and patience harder to stomach than any kind of professional stoicism or detachment? Reminding himself sharply that he had been asked a question that was in no way rhetorical, he gave the other man a nod. He didn't trust himself to say anything in that moment.

"Okay." It struck Miguel then that Brody didn't have anything to take notes onto, and he thought that was odd until he reminded himself that the Lieutenant probably wasn't expecting to learn anything he didn't already know. That, and maybe he didn't _need_ to take notes. The man was a lot smarter than most gave him credit for.

"_I'll believe that when I see it."_

He ignored her.

"So you said you found Tim like that?"

Miguel wasn't sure what question he had been expecting first, but it hadn't been that one. "Yeah. Yes." He was looking down at his hands on the table at first until he realised that avoiding eye contact might be suspicious.

"What were you doing at his quarters in the first place?"

"I went to see if he wanted to grab something to eat." It wasn't uncommon for the two of them to get meals together. That wouldn't seem strange. "When he didn't answer the door I checked to see if it was locked."

"But it wasn't?"

Miguel shook his head. That much was true at least. Tim hadn't needed to unlock it before—

Brody interrupted the train of thought, thankfully. "So you let yourself in?"

He nodded. That wasn't unusual either.

"And then you found O'Neill on the ground?" After another nod Brody persisted, "Did you see a knife, or any other kind of weapon?"

Miguel shifted his foot unconsciously. He had nicked his ankle with the blade after shoving it down his boot. Was it really stinging again or was that just his imagination? "No," he managed to say, but only after swallowing against the sudden dryness in his throat.

It was Jim's turn to nod. The other man probably thought that Miguel hadn't taken the time to look. He didn't appear in the least bit suspicious as he pressed on. "Was anything out of place at all? Any signs of a struggle, or that O'Neill had had company before you got there?"

"No. Nothing like that." That was the truth. It was an easy answer to give.

"You didn't hear anyone leave his room before you got there? Or see anyone coming from that direction?"

"No." Again, easy. Miguel hadn't seen, heard, felt or even _known_ anything during that whole incident, leading up to the moment when Irina had relinquished control of his body and mind and he had come back to himself. He remembered the blood and the cool press of the knife's handle against his palm. It was a struggle not to shift uncomfortably in his seat.

Brody looked thoughtful for a moment before asking, "Have you noticed anything odd about anyone else in the crew recently?" With a shrug he clarified, "Any unusual behaviour, or any member of the crew where they shouldn't be?"

Miguel couldn't hide the furrow in his brow as he felt a flutter of very real anxiety in his stomach. He wasn't sure why Jim was asking that question. Was it possible that the Lieutenant actually _did_ know more than he was letting on?

"Lucas is having trouble pinning down just when the surveillance systems went down. We're trying to figure out a timeline for all of this." He sat back a little in his seat, though he was anything but casual. "The Captain and Commander Ford think it might have something to do with Renford Station. All of this started after we left."

Still frowning, he asked, "They think we might have a stowaway?"

"If we do," Brody replied, "they're the best damn stowaway I've ever seen. Or _not_ seen, more to the point. We can't find any trace of anyone who doesn't belong." He sat forward again. "Captain Bridger had us check the backgrounds of all new personnel who have joined in the last couple of months, just in case it's an inside job of some kind."

Miguel's whole mouth was dry. "Inside job?" He had to concentrate on taking a breath and not fidgeting. "But why? What kind of inside job?"

Jim's shoulders lifted and dropped. "Your guess is as good as mine right now." He sighed then. "Honestly, Miguel? I can't make heads or tails of this. None of it makes any damn sense."

There was that guilt again, a great bitter swell of it. He couldn't keep himself from dropping his gaze then, if only for a moment. "Sorry I couldn't help."

"Hey," Brody responded quickly with a wave of his hand, "no, don't—look, we're all in the same boat here." Another one of those small smiles quirked up the corner of his mouth. "Excuse the pun."

Miguel managed a momentary smile.

"All we can do is keep looking, right?" Brody held his gaze and gave a small bob of his head, as if for reassurance. "We keep on doing our jobs until we get to the bottom of this." The way Jim said that made it sound like he had no doubts whatsoever about them doing just that.

In that moment Miguel wanted to tell him everything, just let it all spill out into the space between them in a great rush, get as much of it out in the open as he could before Irina could stop him.

"_But you won't."_

She didn't need to show him why he wouldn't. He didn't need the vivid reminders.

But that didn't stop him from wishing.

"Yeah," he managed to say at last, hearing just how quietly the word left his lips. He wet them and swallowed against the dryness in his mouth and throat before adding, "Let me know if there's anything else I can do?"

Jim gave him a more certain smile, and a more obvious nod of his head. "Count on it," he said, before pushing up from his chair. He didn't have any further questions, apparently. Some part of Miguel was sorry for that, while another was glad that it was over. He followed suit and got to his feet, waiting until the Lieutenant had started to head for the door before doing the same himself. "And hey, Miguel," Jim said before he had even finished opening the door all the way.

He lifted his gaze and his eyes met Brody's.

"I'm here," the other man told him, without a smile or any trace of anything false or placating. He looked genuinely concerned. "If you need anything." He even set a hand on Miguel's shoulder. "Okay?"

God, he hated himself then. He hated himself so fiercely, so forcefully, that it was all he could do to keep from screaming at the top of his lungs. It took every scrap of strength he possessed in that moment to give Jim a nod and a believably steady, "Okay. Thanks."

That hand on his shoulder patted once and then Jim finished opening the door all the way. Miguel only hesitated for a moment before walking through and heading down the corridor as quickly as he could without running.

* * *

Jim watched Miguel walking down the corridor, right up until the Sensor Chief reached the corner and turned it, disappearing from sight. Like just about everyone else on board he was well aware of just how close Ortiz and O'Neill were, but he hadn't expected the attack on the latter to have such a severe effect on the former. The fact that Miguel had _found_ Tim had probably played a part in that, he thought, but still, it was surprising to see.

If Jim was a suspicious man he might have thought there was something else going on, but he wasn't predisposed to think anything bad about the people he considered friends. Not without very good reason, at least.

With a glance back at the table he released a tight sigh and stepped out of the room. He had already questioned Dagwood about finding Doctor Smith the way he had, and he had had to make a judgement call about how much was too much when it came to the GELF. Dagwood was very easily upset by such things and Jim hadn't wanted to push him too hard. The big guy had told him everything he could, Jim trusted, so there was no need to add any additional stress on top of all that he had to be feeling already.

He ended up on the bridge a short time later, making note of the relief personnel at Communications and Sensors. The small cynical voice in the back of his head, one he usually managed to keep fairly quiet if not altogether silent, wondered just how long it would be before another station was filled by a less familiar face. Shoving that thought aside Jim moved up to stand beside the Captain's chair, drawing Bridger's attention in the process. "No new leads so far, sir," he reported, noting the small flicker of disappointment across the older man's face. "Has Lucas made any progress?" He glanced down to Ford where he sat at the attack board.

"Not that we're aware of," Bridger responded, before giving a nod towards the main viewer. "We're coming up on Renford Station now. I'd like you to accompany me over there."

"Aye, sir."

The young woman at Communications turned a little in her seat, revealing the patch on her chest to say Newman. "We're receiving a message from Renford, Captain. They're asking why we've returned, and if everything is all right."

Ford made a low sound, obviously disgruntled. "How much time do they have?"

"Easy, Jonathan."

In the early days of his time aboard the _seaQuest_ it would have given Jim a small degree of satisfaction to hear the Captain curb the Commander that way, but a lot had happened between then and now. Jim had a lot more respect for Ford now, and the two of them had spent a fairly significant amount of time together since he had joined the crew. They were past their constant posturing and horn-locking, especially when the situation was as serious as this one. In fact, nowadays, Jim would even go so far as to call the Commander a _friend_.

"Put me through," Bridger instructed Newman, who nodded and connected the line to the Captain's terminal. "Mr. Hockler," he greeted formally when the other man appeared on the screen. "This is Captain Bridger."

"Captain," Hockler returned, looking uncertain, but Jim thought it had more to do with confusion than anything else. "Is something wrong? We didn't expect you back this way so soon, if at all."

The Captain was only quiet for a few moments, all the man needed to collect his thoughts and decide how to communicate them. "With your permission, I would like to come over to the station with a small team. I need to speak with you."

And there was no guarantee that this line of communication wasn't compromised in some way. Jim could respect that line of thinking.

"Uh—uh, of course, Captain." Hockler glanced to the side, giving a small shake of his head to someone standing off-screen. "Can I ask what this is all about?"

"I'd prefer to discuss that in person, Mr. Hockler." Bridger wasn't going to divulge any details until he felt comfortable doing so. Maybe Hockler had been testing the waters, for whatever reason, or maybe he was just hoping to get a little more information about a situation that had thrown him well and truly for a loop. "We'll be across shortly." With that, the Captain terminated the line.

"Do you want me to assemble a security team, sir?" Jim asked.

Bridger shook his head. "We don't know that that'll be necessary, Lieutenant. There's no need to alarm these people until we have more information."

Ford had been listening in on the exchange. "With all due respect, Captain, we don't know that it's _not_ necessary."

The Commander had a point. For all they knew someone at Renford _was_ behind all of their recent misfortune and they were about to walk into some kind of trap, or at least a confrontation.

Bridger fixed his Executive Officer with a level stare. "Innocent until proven guilty, Jonathan."

That put an end to whatever argument Ford had been prepared to make, and after a moment he gave a single nod of his head. Jim noticed that his jaw was clenched the entire time though. He would go along with the Captain's plan, but he didn't have to be happy about it.

"Have Henderson and Ortiz report to the launch bay," Bridger said to Newman as he rose from his chair. "They were heading the repair teams, they know what we're walking into. At the very least they'll be able to weigh in on those repairs, and just how exaggerated they were in our reports."

Jim didn't hesitate in turning to follow the Captain from the bridge. He wouldn't need to make a stop at the armoury on the way to the launch bay, thankfully. He had been carrying a sidearm ever since O'Neill's attack and he had been prepared to use it at the drop of a hat. Hopefully he wouldn't have to but he was ready for anything, and he wasn't about to let another member of the crew go down without putting up one hell of a fight on their behalf.

* * *

Running through a submarine was never a good idea, as a general rule. Not only were there usually plenty of other people moving around that could be crashed into but there was also the risk of wet and therefore _slippery_ surfaces. Accidents were more likely to happen in those moments but there were also times when the need for urgency took precedence over anything else.

This was _definitely_ one of those times.

So Lucas had taken off running as soon as he had shared his suspicions with Tony and Dagwood because there was no time to waste and the last he had known the _seaQuest_ had been heading back to Renford. He needed to put a stop to that before things got unnecessarily complicated. As it was he might already be too late.

It wasn't until he had covered more than half the distance between his quarters and the bridge that he had realised using the comm might have been the best option but by then it was too late and he had already gone much too far to reconsider. What he _hadn't_ considered was just how much ground, figuratively speaking, they had been able to cover since he had last spoken to the Captain. They all knew that the _seaQuest_ was fast, but in the depths of the oceans it was difficult to judge positions without very distinct landmarks and the lack of any kind of viewports throughout most of the submarine.

So it was that when Lucas finally made it to the bridge, Tony and Dagwood dutifully in tow, the Captain's chair was occupied not by Bridger himself but Commander Ford, who turned at the sound of rushing footsteps. His surprise was plain to see but it was quickly replaced by concern as he asked, "What is it, Lucas?" Because he might have been a teenager and prone to reckless and impulsive behaviour, but if there was one thing they could count on from him it was a sense of professionalism when it came to the submarine and its operations. He wouldn't bolt onto the bridge without good reason.

"Where's the Captain?"

"On his way down to the launch bay," Ford returned immediately, looking between the three of them standing just inside the doors and obviously trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

Through the main viewport Lucas could see the mining station. They had arrived.

"Dammit." Lucas muttered it under his breath and turned to leave before stopping himself so abruptly that he actually skidded. If it hadn't been for Dagwood's quick reflexes and one very strong hand steadying him then he likely would have ended up sprawled on the floor. "Make sure that launch doesn't leave," he told Commander Ford, hoping that the Executive Officer would hear the urgency in his voice and take him seriously.

And with that he took off running again.

* * *

"_This could be just what we need."_

Miguel let her figure out for herself that he didn't know what she was talking about.

He heard her sigh. _"You've done a terrible job at keeping your head down and acting normal."_

Because things were anything _but_ normal, in his opinion.

Irina huffed. _"We can use everyone's suspicion in our favour."_

As much as he didn't want to dignify her existence with any kind of acknowledgement he needed more than that if he was going to try and get on the same page. _How?_

"_I won't know that until we get over there. But if certain members of the crew are under the impression that there's an intruder on board—"_

_There __**is**__._

"—_and that they might have come from this station, then we can use that."_ Irina carried on as if he hadn't interrupted her. _"Keep your eyes open for opportunities to perpetuate that suspicion."_

She went quiet after that, leaving him to figure the rest out for himself. Miguel didn't have the first clue how he would be able to do what she was asking if there was no evidence, or hints thereof, to be found anywhere. What was she expecting him to do? He couldn't very well fabricate signs out of thin air.

"Hey."

He had been dimly aware of approaching footsteps, thankfully, so he didn't even come close to starting that time, turning his head to regard Lonnie as she joined him, even as she continued speaking, "So what do _you_ make of all this?" She wasn't her normal cheery self, to say the least, her expression pensive as she held his gaze. When he didn't immediately respond she went on, "I can understand why people might think we picked up some kind of stowaway at Renford, but how would they have gotten aboard the launch without any of us noticing? It's not like there's really anywhere to hide on those things." She offered a shadow of a smile. "They're kinda cramped."

That was putting it mildly. Even with only a couple of people on board it was tight quarters. Miguel remembered when the entire crew had had to evacuate the first _seaQuest_ and they had had to carry Darwin in his sling as well. Now _that_ had been cramped. "So you think it's something else?"

Lonnie shrugged lightly. "Something, someone." She sighed softly. "Honestly? I don't know." Her eyes lifted to his again as they walked what little distance was left between them and the bay. "But I hope we get some answers, one way or another. Who knows what will happen if we don't?" She walked ahead of him after that, though Miguel realised belatedly that his own pace had slowed significantly enough that she had outstripped him by chance more than intention.

That sour taste was back, and the equally sour feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was in view of the open launch doors when he considered turning and bolting back the way he had come. He could find one of _seaQuest_'s few blind spots and hide there for however long it took for people to notice that the trouble had ceased while he was absent.

Or maybe there was another way. No one else would have to get hurt if he just—

"_Don't even __**think**__ about it."_

"Miguel!"Brody's voice called across the bay before he could do anything, before he could even think about responding to Irina. When he looked up to the Lieutenant standing at the top of the steps in front of the open doors he saw the other man wave his hand in a _come on_ motion that told him his window of opportunity had not only closed, but slammed shut.

Schooling his expression as much as he was able to he crossed the bay and jogged up the steps to join Brody. He gave the Lieutenant a small nod in lieu of a smile that would feel wrong for so many reasons and then without a word he started to descend the ladder into the launch proper.

"_WAIT_!"

Gripping the side rails of the ladder more tightly, equal parts surprised and uncertain, Miguel looked over the top rung and into the bay as the owner of the voice came hurrying in. Lucas was being followed by Piccolo and Dagwood, both of whom looked a little startled by whatever situation was unfolding. The teenager, on the other hand, looked resolute.

"Where's Captain Bridger?" he asked, obviously more than a little breathless, his pale eyes scanning the faces of those gathered looking for the man in question.

"Lucas?" It came from below, inside the launch. Miguel tilted his head to look down and saw the older man standing there looking up. His brow was furrowed in concern. "Is that Lucas?"

"Yes, sir."

Swift footsteps heralded Lucas' arrival at the launch's entrance. "Captain?" He looked past Miguel. "Captain, I need to speak with you."

"Can't it wait, Lucas? We're on our way to Renford."

"No!" It was so swift and so determined that it almost startled Miguel. As it was his heart was starting to beat harder and faster and he thought his knuckles might have gone white from the intensity of his grip on the ladder. "Please, Captain, it's important."

At those words his heartbeat picked up even more. He cast a glance at Brody who offered him a shrug and then jerked his head in an encouraging gesture that he didn't need to see twice in order to understand. The Lieutenant was suggesting he get clear so Captain Bridger could come up. In the fleeting moment in which he hesitated to do as suggested Miguel felt Irina's irritation flare up, and by the time he got clear of the ladder her aggravation was so obvious that it was a struggle not to grimace.

Bridger wasted no time in climbing the ladder. "Lucas," he said as soon as the teenager was in sight. "The station is expecting us. They're expecting _me_. I can't just not show up."

"Tell them you're not coming, Captain." Lucas was looking only at Captain Bridger as the older man reached the top of the ladder and stepped free. From down below Miguel could hear Henderson moving around and before long she too was climbing up, obviously wanting to see what was going on.

"What's going on, Lucas?" Brody asked, frowning. "I thought you agreed this was a good idea."

"It _was_," their Chief Computer Analyst returned. "But—" He glanced around not only at the small party who had been bound for Renford but at the rest of the crew milling around the launch bay, many of them now turned towards the group and the scene unfolding there.

Miguel could hear the hammering of his heart in his head so clearly, so loudly, that it almost drowned out everything else. He didn't realise that he had balled his hands into fists, or that his shoulders were so tight that they were beginning to ache.

Lucas lowered his voice, leaning a little closer to Captain Bridger to say, "Not here." The older man's brow furrowed and he glanced around as well, taking in the eyes turned in their direction and the building interest to go along with them. With a nod he agreed with the teenager's judgement and started to follow him down from the launch access.

When he was descending the steps he turned enough to say, "Lieutenant, have Commander Ford meet us in the ward room." He looked past Brody to Miguel, even as Henderson stepped up beside him. "_All_ of us."

The bottom of Miguel's stomach threatened to drop out but even as the dread was taking root Irina's voice sounded through his head, easily cutting across the thunder of his heart. _"For God's sake, Miguel."_ Even as she spoke he felt his heart beginning to slow and the tension through his shoulders and back starting to ease. None of it was his own doing. A cold shudder traced its way down his spine. _"I'm starting to think you're being this obvious on purpose."_ The displeasure in her voice was palpable. _"Don't make me take the reins permanently."_

The threat was daunting enough, the idea of losing himself completely, not to mention forever, downright chilling enough that he got moving without any further hesitation. Jim walked ahead with Lonnie following behind him, all three of them trailing in the wake of Lucas and Captain Bridger. Miguel noted after a minute or so that Piccolo and Dagwood hadn't broken off from the group either, but had opted to trail at the back of the party.

No one said a word as they moved through the boat and when they approached the ward room Commander Ford was already waiting for them, one hand against the doorway with a grim expression on his face.

"Jonathan," the Captain greeted his second-in-command. "What is it?"

"We've just had word from the galley, sir," Ford said, and Miguel's stomach not only dropped but churned viciously. He knew what was coming. "They've reported that there's a knife missing."

Even with Irina somehow manipulating his body to keep him from showing it on the outside it was everything Miguel could do in that moment not to double over on the spot and empty the contents of his stomach right there on the floor. As it was he must have done _something_ to show some level of discomfort, because the next thing he knew he could feel a hand on his upper back. Lonnie had stepped a little closer to him in doing so, coming up almost level with him, her voice little more than a whisper as she asked him, "Are you all right?"

It took every ounce of whatever strength was left to him in that moment just to nod his head. He couldn't meet her eyes. He couldn't bear to look at her.

* * *

Something was wrong. And just because she didn't know _what_, that didn't change the fact that she knew that _something_ was wrong. Possibly even _very_ wrong. Even in profile there was something about his expression that was bothering her, deeply, and even though she couldn't put her finger on what it was she trusted herself enough to be certain. Whatever it was it was more than he was letting on.

If she didn't know better she could have sworn he looked _frightened_. But why? And of what?

It was probably just the thought of someone, _anyone_, on board being capable of stealing a knife from the galley and turning it on a fellow crewmember. It had to be that simple, didn't it? Lonnie just couldn't imagine it being anything more than that.

The group was moving again after that and Miguel stepped away from her hand. He didn't look back at her as he did so, or afterwards, and Lonnie followed him into the ward room with Tony and Dagwood trailing after her. Normally there wouldn't have been enough spaces around the table for everyone but with two of their number absent, under close supervision in med bay, they could all claim a seat. Lonnie took advantage of the fact that Miguel chose the seat closest to the door in order to claim the one beside him. Perhaps sitting across from him would have been better, she thought after the fact, but it was too late now. As it was Brody claimed that seat and she knew he would spot anything unusual, if indeed there was anything _to_ spot.

Miguel turned his head to look at her then, an unexpected enough action that it caught her off guard, but not nearly as much as his expression did. He looked worried, which in and of itself wasn't unusual, but it wasn't just a general worry. This was specific, and targeted. At _her_.

She felt a chill trace the length of her spine.

At the sound of Captain Bridger's voice Miguel turned his head away again, leaving Lonnie feeling thrown and discomforted, though she couldn't say for the life of her just _why_ exactly. That expression, the fact that it had seemed to be aimed at her specifically, had left her at a loss.

"All right, Lucas," the Captain had said, standing at the head of the table with his hands on his hips. "Before we discuss this new development with O'Neill's attack, what was it that you felt you couldn't tell me out in the open?"

Lucas was sitting on the other side of the table, close to its end. He looked across at Tony, and briefly to Dagwood as well, and then returned his attention to the Captain. "I know where the attacker is, and it's not Renford."

"No," Commander Ford said with a small shake of his head. "We knew they weren't _at_ Renford. They couldn't have done what they did remotely."

"Exactly, Commander." Lucas' voice sounded tight. Lonnie thought he sounded frustrated. "But I mean they're not _from_ Renford either. They can't be."

"Why not?" Bridger asked.

"Because all of this is too specific. Too specialised." Lucas looked around at each of them in turn. "Whoever it is doing this knows how we work, how _I_ work definitely, and they know where to strike and when." His gaze focused on Captain Bridger. "It can't be someone from the outside. It just can't."

The Captain and Commander exchanged a look. "So you're saying it's someone on the crew," Bridger said, his tone grave and unhappy, not surprisingly. The idea that anyone on _seaQuest_ could be in any way responsible for the terrible things that had happened was—well, it was unthinkable.

"Yes, Captain," Lucas confirmed. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

The room was quiet for a few moments but that quiet was anything but comfortable. It was heavy and tense and Lonnie had to fight to keep from shifting her weight in her seat. She glanced to Miguel at her left and wondered if the fact that he wasn't looking at anyone specifically meant anything.

"What about you two?" Bridger asked then, looking between Ford and Brody. "Did you find anything with the newest additions?"

Jim shook his head. "Nothing that fits what we're looking for, sir." At the Captain's curious look he went on, "No one with any computing background, or any knowledge or experience of the kind of complex systems we're dealing with."

"But that means—" Lonnie stopped herself, instantly feeling as though she had spoken out of turn and it wasn't her place, here and now, to do any such thing. When the Captain looked her way she offered him what she hoped was a suitably apologetic expression.

"What is it, Henderson?" he asked her. "Now isn't the time to be shy. If you have any ideas or suggestions, then speak up."

Everyone was looking at her, even Miguel, though she noticed his attention was much more fleeting than anyone else's. Something about the way he averted his gaze gave her the courage to say, "I just meant, sir, that that means it's someone who's been on board for a while now." She hesitated. "Doesn't it?"

"It _has_ been several months since our last personnel update," Ford added, looking up towards the Captain, almost reluctantly, or perhaps it was more fitting to call the look on his face regretful.

"Wait." Tony didn't seem to share her trepidation about speaking up in such a setting. "So we've got some kinda _spy_ on board or somethin'? Is that what you guys are sayin'?"

Across the table Jim clenched his jaw visibly. Lonnie could see the line of it more prominently now, the Lieutenant's indignation obvious.

With a heavy sigh Captain Bridger looked down the table, briefly meeting Lonnie's gaze before focusing past her to where Tony was sitting. "Unfortunately, and as much as I wish otherwise, that seems to be _exactly_ what we're saying."


	14. Reckless Abandon

He couldn't breathe. His chest was burning, his heart pounding, his vision tunnelling. Every inch of his body was shaking. Violently.

The door to his quarters had barely closed behind him before it hit, fast and heavy, robbing him of every scrap of composure and control that he had been managing to hold together since the launch bay and everything that had unfolded thereafter. All at once he lost the ability to take air down into his lungs, to think and see clearly, and to keep his body upright. First one and then the other his knees folded under him and his back thumped heavily against the door as he hit the ground just inside the room. In the dark quiet emptiness of the room his ragged choking gasps for breath were thunderously loud.

"_Stop it."_

He couldn't.

"_Calm down."_

He couldn't.

"_**Stop**__."_

_He couldn't_.

Nothing had ever felt so out of his reach, so far beyond his capabilities. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't see, couldn't move. Everything was faltering and failing and there was nothing he could do about any of it. Shuddering more than shaking one hand hit the ground and splayed there, as if he could anchor himself somehow but like everything else beyond the overwhelming and overpowering sense of hopelessness and dread it was beyond him. Well and truly beyond him.

What was he going to do? What _could_ he do?

And then it hit him, with the force of a wave crashing stormily against the rocks, the realisation that maybe this wasn't so awful, so terrible, so unthinkable. Maybe this was just what he had been waiting for, the slip that he had been hoping for. He had started to think that it would never come, that it was impossible, but here it was looming before him and all of a sudden it was all he could do not to _laugh_. There was no maybe about any of it, he realised, no uncertainty in what had happened or what would happen now. It didn't matter that it hadn't occurred to him until _after_ he was away from everyone else, until he was behind closed doors. To Miguel, in that moment, all that mattered was that it _had_.

Irina had screwed up. Seriously. Massively. And there was no taking that back or undoing the damage that had been done by it.

He did laugh then, abruptly, almost catching himself by surprise, the act of it straining his lungs and chest painfully but it was a pain that he could ignore because it felt like it had been so long since he laughed that it was worth it.

And then, in the blink of an eye, the room was gone. Everything was black.

Suddenly and without warning he was back in that lightless and endless expanse where all he could see was himself and the eternity into which the black abyss stretched in all directions. It happened so abruptly that it took Miguel a moment to orient himself and realise just where he was. The how of the matter was something else entirely and as he turned on the spot, somehow supported on what appeared for all intents and purposes to be nothing at all he strained to recall falling asleep or losing consciousness somehow. But he hadn't. He had been awake, slumped down against the inside of the door to his and Tyson's quarters after leaving the ward room along with everyone else and somehow, by some miracle, making it back to his room and some semblance of privacy so that he could let the panic overcome him. He had been conscious, not entirely lucid or in control of his faculties, but wholly awake all the same.

How then?

"Still asking stupid questions." Irina's voice was firm, her words clipped, as she marched out of the black ahead of him and came to stand only a few feet away, her eyes directly meeting his and not wavering for so much as a second. "I'm starting to think I made a mistake in choosing you. You've been nothing but trouble, and it's lost what little charm it had in the beginning."

"That's not the only mistake you've made, is it?" he shot back at her, feeling bolder than he had felt in a while, able to stand tall and hold his shoulders squared and steady. He met her eyes with the same level of conviction that she herself had brought to the encounter and he even allowed himself the beginnings of a smirk as he stood before her.

Her eyes narrowed. Just a fraction, barely even perceptible, but he caught it. "Everything I've done can be laid at _your_ feet, Miguel. Don't forget that."

His brows quirked upward. "Mine?" He even indicated himself, the fingers of one hand briefly touching to the centre of his chest. "I don't think so." He actually took a step towards her then. "I didn't ask for any of this, Irina. You forced it on me. Anything and _everything_ I've done since then is on you."

Her eyes narrowed further still, her lips thinning as her jaw clenched visibly. He was getting to her. Getting under her skin.

Good. Now she knew how it felt.

"This is _your_ fault," he snapped at her, his temper flaring so fiercely and so suddenly that he didn't even get the chance to rein it in, but it wasn't just anger fuelling him then. It was triumph as well. Beautiful, unexpected, glorious and wonderful _triumph_. "You keep saying it's mine but you're the one who forced your way in here, where you weren't welcome. _You're_ the one who's made me do _all_ of this. It's not me, it's _you_." The last words came out of him explosively, his voice raised to such a point that it left his throat sore and aching. It felt good to let it out, to allow it to spill forth into the space between them. He had been bottling and boxing everything so desperately for what felt like such a long time that it was a relief to let go. His body was trembling in the aftermath and he fixed his eyes on her with hateful accusation, without the slightest bit of fear or regret.

When she struck him then it was hard enough to throw him fully around and down to the floor, and it filled his mouth with the taste of blood. Against the blackness beneath him he watched, momentarily dazed, as drops of it landed, spattering, each one joining the last to form a small puddle. It was such a vivid contrast against the black that for a second it actually captivated him completely.

Before he could even finish pushing himself up a firm grip closed around one of his arms above the elbow and yanked, _hard_. It unbalanced him further and he staggered, unable to prepare or brace for the next blow which left his ears ringing, and the one that followed it immediately afterwards, slamming the air out of his lungs even before he hit the ground once again. The taste of blood in his mouth thickened, intensifying, and he coughed against it, almost choking. There was a wet smack of a sound as a mouthful of it hit the floor.

He tried to remind himself that it wasn't real, that it was all in his head, in this space that she had made to _feel_ real, but that didn't stop the pain from radiating and burning through him and it certainly didn't keep the next blow from landing.

The slam of her foot into his ribs was enough to lift him from the floor and flip him over onto his back, gasping and choking and almost retching. It felt like he had swallowed fire, gulped down a great gout of it, and tears of pain stung his eyes to such a point that it practically blinded him. He didn't see Irina coming until she was on top of him, driving him all the way into the floor, one of her knees grinding against his sternum and crushing the air out of him even further, what little of it he had had in him to begin with. One of her alarmingly strong hands wrapped around his throat and pressed as she leaned down, bringing her face close to his own, her teeth bared predatorily and her eyes glinting fiercely.

"Enough," she all but snarled at him. Her hand gripped tighter. "_Enough_." Her nails dug into his flesh, biting deeply enough to draw blood. "I gave you chance after chance and all you did was throw them back in my face. You ungrateful _bastard_." She released his throat and smacked him across the face, her palm cracking against his cheek with stunning force. With a spiteful ram of her knee she pushed herself up off him and started to move around him. Prowling.

Miguel coughed and choked and spat the fresh mouthful of blood onto the ground from where it had pooled on, under, and around his tongue, feeling the residue of it dripping from his lips as he fought for breath. She prowled around him like a big cat, looming despite her lean frame, the elegant grace that he had originally found so enticing now reminding him ominously of a snake coiling ready to strike.

"I gave you a _choice_," she growled down at him, even as he got his knees under him properly, albeit shakily, and pushed down against the ground with one arm. He brought the other up to brace against his burning ribs. "Do you remember, Miguel?" She was closer to him then, her predatory circle tightening around him. Coiling. "You chose the pain."

And then she had him by the arm, snatching it by the elbow where it jutted out at his side as he tried to protect his already battered ribs. With one solid and certain yank she pulled it clear of his body, almost tugging him completely off balance again, and twisted it. Pain burned through the limb and he gasped, the taste of copper thick in his throat and sitting heavily, chokingly, on the back of his tongue.

Irina gave the trapped arm one more forceful twist and then slammed her other hand into it in a tightly balled fist. Under the strain of the twist and the power of the blow something not only snapped but _shattered_. Miguel not only felt it but _heard_ it, the splintering crack and pop of it as it gave under the strike, but even before the horrible sound had finished forming he was letting out a howl of agony. The scream filled the black, stretching out until his throat felt raw, until it tasted bloody.

With a shove Irina let go, releasing his arm and allowing him to buckle to the ground. His scream had broken off by then, becoming little more than groans and whines of sound that tangled in his raw throat and came out past gritted teeth in a knotted mess.

"Do you still choose the pain, Miguel?"

He heard her even though it seemed for a moment as if her voice was coming from somewhere very far away. And yet she was close. So close. _Too_ close. After several seconds in which the agony was all he could feel in every fibre of his being he became aware of the fact that Irina was looming over him not only figuratively but literally. He had crumpled forward and down, still halfway supported by his knees but buckled to the ground. His forehead was down against that impossible and unperceivable floor, his black hair toppled around his face but doing little to nothing to hide his pain as it shuddered and quaked its way through his entire frame. His good arm had instinctively clutched at the shattered one and attempted to hug it into him, against his abdomen as he folded forward, gasping and heaving and fighting for every scrap of breath.

Irina was bent over him, laying one hand on his back between his shoulder blades as they shuddered beneath her touch, supporting herself as she leaned down enough to speak into his ear. "You made the wrong choice," she hissed down it. Like a snake. "But it's too late now." Her hand pressed firmly as it trailed up his back the short distance to his bared neck and the hair that had fallen forward like a veil. Her fingers twined through the curls and yanked. _Hard_.

Miguel let out another cry as she forced him to follow her up. She let him stay on his knees but he was in too much pain to be grateful for that. It shouldn't have been possible, that pain, the sheer enormity of it, how entirely it consumed him and threatened to burn him up from within, but there was no escaping it. Was she making it worse somehow? Feeding it somehow?

It didn't matter.

"No," she said but her voice was almost a purr then instead of a hiss or a growl. "It _doesn't_." She tightened her grip. Miguel didn't cry out then so much as he whimpered. "None of it matters now," she told him, holding him with his head angled back, looking down on him as he trembled, trapped, beneath her. "You had every opportunity to do what I asked and spare your wretched little friends but you wasted all of that, didn't you?" Another tug. "And now it's too late." Another. "_Much_ too late."

She tossed his head forward, letting her fingers catch on his hair on the way free but the pain of that was so small compared to everything else that it barely even registered. With a wet and hitching gasp he managed to catch himself before he fell all the way down onto his face. His good arm thumped clumsily into the floor but it left his shattered one to hang and hit the ground as well. His breath caught in an agonised choke and he was barely able to keep himself from throwing up, the pain was so great.

"And you only have yourself to blame," Irina said from above him, not wasting a single opportunity to twist the knife or rub salt in the wound. Miguel became dimly aware of the way she came to stand in front of him, very much within striking distance. "Remember," she went on, her words firm and her voice tight with unspent anger, "you could have prevented what's coming."

Even through the agony, the flooding and drowning waves of it, Miguel heard those words and registered the danger in them. His vision was blurred, unsteady, as he lifted his head enough to look up at her, awkwardly pushing on his good arm to get himself onto his knees again so he could see her more clearly. "W-what—" That was all that came out, his voice becoming little more than a strangled wheeze after that.

Staring down at him she was quiet for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to indulge him, before a touch of a smile graced her lips. What could he do to stop her? Fight her? The smile was anything but kind as she said to him, "Someone needs to teach that brat not to stick his nose where it doesn't belong."

Brat?

Oh God.

_Lucas_.

"_No_," he tried to grind out but it was little more than a grunt, a groan, a shapeless sound of desperate protest even as he reached for her. He had to stop her.

With a sigh and a roll of her eyes Irina lashed out with one foot, landing a solid and decisive kick to Miguel's chest, powerful enough to slam him back and down to the ground. His cough was more like a bark, a breathless cry of pain as the black expanse around him somehow seemed to swim and twist deliriously, dizzyingly and nauseatingly. The taste of blood was back, thick and choking, sliding sickeningly down his throat as he lay there shaking and sweating, helpless.

"You know," Irina said slowly as she moved to stand over him once again. "It's almost a shame I couldn't get my hands on _him_ for all of this. Think how much simpler _that_ would have been." Her smile was dry, amused, and lazily triumphant.

And then she kicked him again, clean across the face this time, snapping his head to the side and hurtling him well and truly into total oblivion.

* * *

"Irina."

"Shut up."

"_Irina_."

"I know. Be quiet."

On the fringes of her awareness she felt his concern, his disapproval, his desire to step in and intervene. She also felt, _knew_, that he wouldn't. His admiration for her, his trust, ran too deeply and too strongly for him to do any such thing. Consider it though he might, perhaps even at length, it would never occur to him to actually _try_.

Evan worried that she was overreaching, that she was pushing herself, that she was stretching beyond the limits of her abilities.

He was wrong.

Irina cut him out of her mind, closed herself off to him all but the barest amount so that she could concentrate, so that she could push and spread and inhabit. _Again_. How many times now? Three? She had lost count. It didn't matter.

She had strength enough for this.

This and so much more.

* * *

"Something is _wrong_." Even as the words left her mouth she could see the doubt creeping across Tony's face, the small shake of his head as he averted his gaze to nothing in particular. Keeping her frustration in check because of that flicker of doubt she pulled in a breath and pressed on, "You know I'm right." But how? "What happened?"

Again his gaze flickered briefly in her direction before he went back to what he was doing, which wasn't much at all considering he had already eaten what little was on his meal tray to begin with. "It's nothin'. Or it's _probably_ nothin', I mean." With an exaggerated shrug he looked her way more certainly and said, "Everybody has bad mornin's sometimes, y'know?"

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

Tony sighed. It was almost dramatic, put on and just as exaggerated as that shrug moments earlier. "I was takin' a shower and he came in and took one after I was done but he seemed—" Another shrug. A non-committal gesture with his head. "I dunno, he seemed out of it. Y'know?"

Lonnie thought that maybe she did, but she also couldn't be completely certain. "Specifics, Tony. Come on."

Tony didn't sigh that time, instead adopting an almost contemplative look and nudging his used cutlery against his tray. "He's usually pretty observant, right? He wasn't. I mean, he didn't even seem to notice I was _there_ at first."

Which didn't sound like Miguel.

"And then, when he was _in_ the shower," Tony continued, "it was almost like he forgot where he was or what he was doin'." Yet another shrug. "But like I said, everybody has bad mornin's sometimes." With a huff of air that might have been a laugh he added, "Hell, I have 'em all the time."

Lonnie considered the man sitting nearby. "But you're not Miguel Ortiz." When he lifted his gaze to her she gave him a small shake of her head. "No offence, Tony." And she really hadn't meant any. "You know what I mean."

After a moment he dipped his head to one side, obviously conceding the point, before going back to distractedly nudging at his now-useless cutlery.

Not being entirely aware of his surroundings, seeming to forget what he was doing, acting withdrawn and distant, even behaving somewhat erratically and even _jumpy_? Something was _definitely_ wrong.

She needed to speak to the Captain.

* * *

His eyes were starting to ache, his vision beginning to blur at the edges, but he was no stranger to such things. Lucas could remember countless nights spent coding and hacking, bypassing firewalls and building workarounds that confused and crippled even the most sophisticated of systems. At the end of all of those nights, when the sun had been rising or had already fully risen, he had emerged victorious and this would be no different. He _had_ to beat this one. This wasn't like all those other times when boredom and curiosity, or even arrogance had driven him to push and push and see just how far he could go, just how deep into the system he could burrow himself before said system even so much as detected him. This was important. Vital. A matter of life and death.

Maybe that was exaggerating things a little but Lucas didn't think so. O'Neill could have lost his life, certainly, and there was no telling what kind of damage had been done to Doctor Smith.

Life and death wasn't such a stretch.

So, aching eyes or not, burgeoning headache or not, cramping fingers or not, he would push on. Already he had sunk hours into this process and there might yet be hours more to go, but he couldn't give up. Too many people were counting on him.

The algorithm he had written was working away tirelessly, scouring through the _seaQuest_'s many systems and walls upon walls of coding and syntax, digging and hunting and sniffing out the pathways that he could use to undo what their saboteur had done. Whoever it was had done a great job, Lucas had to give them that much. If the situation hadn't been so dire he thought maybe he would have commended them on their handiwork when they finally caught up with them, but given everything that had happened? That was the last thing on his mind.

In the tube that ran along one wall of his and Tony's quarters Darwin kept making lazy passes, curious to see what Lucas was doing but not interrupting his work even though the vocorder was right there in sight of the dolphin every time he passed on by. It was comforting, in a way, to know that Darwin was keeping an eye on him, checking in on him. Every now and then he would twist around in his chair to watch the dolphin pass by and give him a simple wave which was really just the raising of one hand. Darwin would respond with an undulation of his body that made his tail flick more obviously and Lucas would smile briefly before returning to his work.

As was so often the case when he got his head into something like this Lucas had completely lost track of time. Had it been day or night when he had bolted through the submarine to find Captain Bridger? How much time had passed since then? Was the sun up now? Or had it already set again?

The sound at the door scattered thoughts of times of day and sunsets and sunrises into utter disarray and he turned in his seat to see just what it was that Tony wanted now. It had to be Tony. Anyone else would have knocked.

Except it wasn't Tony.

"Ortiz?" He turned even more, starting to rise from the seat in order to make it easier to follow the Sensor Chief out of the room for whatever reason. The older man must have come to retrieve him for one thing or another, because Captain Bridger wanted him or because they had found something they needed him to take a look at. What other reason could there be for Ortiz to be here?

But he didn't respond, didn't explain himself, didn't even hesitate to descend the steps leading into the room proper. There was no time spent lingering on the threshold, the door already closed behind him as he moved down the steps and right up to Lucas just as he finished rising from his seat. Before the other man's name could even finish leaving his lips a second time Lucas felt a hand clasp around his throat and drive him back, forcefully and swiftly, until his back hit the wall of equipment at the rear of the room. The air rushed out of his lungs in a cough and he gathered himself enough to meet Ortiz's eyes and begin to ask _why_.

The cold, hard look in Ortiz's eyes made him stop, rooting him to the spot as his blood turned to ice in his veins. There was something awful about that look, something horribly cruel and calculating. Something so _wrong_.

Fear blossomed, turning quickly to fear, and Lucas clutched at Ortiz's hand to try and prise himself free but before he could find any kind of purchase those fingers closed tighter and tighter still. And then they began to squeeze.


	15. Under Siege

Opting to go along with Henderson had kept him from wondering what else to do with himself and before long he found himself at the door to the Captain's ready room waiting for their senior officer to open up. It didn't take long, but when the Captain looked from Henderson to Tony it was clear that they were the last two people he had been expecting.

"Captain," Henderson greeted, "sorry to disturb you." Tony couldn't help but wonder if she was maybe having second thoughts.

"No, no, it's all right." He frowned a little. "Is something wrong?"

Henderson cast a look at Tony, who canted his head a little to the side and drew in a breath. This was her theory, not his. The floor was all hers.

"Possibly, sir." And then she amended, "Hopefully not. Hopefully this is all in my head."

Bridger considered that for a moment. "Well," he said, looking from one Seaman to the other again. "Why don't you come in and tell me what's on your mind, and we'll see if we can't figure that out, hmm?"

If Tony was honest with himself he hadn't been expecting an invitation and he hesitated for a few moments before the Captain fixed him with an inquiring glance. He hesitated for only a moment more before following Henderson over the threshold and into the room beyond, feeling instantly awkward and out of place, not knowing what to do with his hands and ultimately settling for linking them at the small of his back if only so he wouldn't accidentally knock something over. Like that room in the future this was a place that reminded him of being at his Aunt's, where he had to keep his hands in his pockets. He didn't think pocketing his hands in front of the Captain would be all that professional though, so he kept them at his back.

"So, Henderson," Bridger said once he had closed the door and come around the pair to face them again. "Tell me what's on your mind."

Much like Tony himself Henderson had come to stand at ease, though she was a little more nervous than him. He could tell that at a glance, from the minute way she shuffled her feet before settling to the way she hesitated before starting to speak in earnest. "Well, sir, like I said, it might be nothing—"

"And it might be _something_," the Captain interjected, brows quirked upward. He was encouraging Henderson to just speak her mind rather than holding back.

As he stood there Tony found himself reminded once again why it was so easy to follow a man like Nathan Bridger. He commanded respect without being authoritarian and inspired loyalty with real sincerity and compassion, as well as a genuine strength of character. He stuck to his convictions and he believed in his people, giving them the freedom to think and act without keeping them on such a tight leash that it was practically choking. How many other people would have not only permitted an ex-convict but also ultimately _welcomed_ them? Tony had thought frequently since joining the crew that other commanding officers would have had him scrubbing toilets or any other number of similar menial tasks, but Bridger had not only embraced his unique skillset but also encouraged him to build upon those and learn _new_ things. Hell, in the first days of his tour the Captain had invited Tony to join Ortiz at the Sensor Chief's station to observe operations from that point, and during a hostile situation at that.

How many others would have allowed that, let alone instigated it?

No one. Only Bridger.

Henderson had cleared her throat and given their commanding officer a quietly apologetic smile, but before she could go any further there was a commotion at the door and then it opened to permit Brody, who leaned through the hatch enough to say, and with no small amount of urgency, "Captain, it's Darwin."

That was all Bridger needed to hear in order to drop everything and follow the Lieutenant from his ready room. Not knowing what else to do, and genuinely concerned about the dolphin himself, Tony followed along. Henderson trailed after him, obviously worried as well, and when the group reached the bridge it was easy to see what had inspired Brody to retrieve the Captain. Even before they stepped onto the bridge proper they could hear the synthesised voice of the vocorder as Darwin tried to explain what had agitated him so thoroughly, but as they moved into sight of the open pool they saw the dolphin shifting back and forth with his head above water, moving so frantically that he was splashing that water over the sides and onto not only the grated floor but also the feet and lower legs of everyone nearby.

A joke about being in the front two rows popped into Tony's head but he dismissed it immediately.

"What is it, my friend?" Bridger had moved right up to the edge of the pool, risk of a soaking be damned, and Darwin instantly moved into the man's extended hands with his beak opening and closing swiftly, chattering rapidly.

"Lucas. Ortiz. Danger, hurt, come!"

"Slow down, Darwin. Slow down!" Bridger smoothed his hands back over Darwin's head, over his beak and melon, trying to calm him. "We don't understand."

"Lucas hurt," Darwin said then, clearly and pointedly. "Ortiz hurt."

"How are they hurt, Darwin?" Ford asked, leaning on the edge of the pool not far from Bridger.

"Ortiz hurt Lucas," the dolphin replied, triggering confusion and disbelief in all those listening in. "Ortiz hurt. Lucas hurt. Ortiz hurt Lucas. Not Ortiz!"

It took the Captain only a second to decide that the specifics and all clarifications could wait. "_Where_, Darwin? Where are they?"

"Room," Darwin responded instantly. And then he went on, "Lucas room. Lucas hurt in Lucas room."

"Our quarters," Tony cut in, meeting Brody's gaze as the Lieutenant straightened from where he had been leaned against the tank as well. The Security Officer didn't need any orders from his superior officers in order to spring into action and Tony was hot on his heels, able to keep pace easily despite his shorter legs. There was a clattering of UEO issue boots against the metal grating underfoot as at least two other people thundered along behind them, cutting a path through the ship with Brody's voice raised to command anyone and everyone to move out of the way as they went, rapidly and almost recklessly. Tony didn't think. He just followed.

Out of the corner of his eye as they went bolting down a length of hallway he saw a flash of grey in the tube to their left and knew that Darwin was with them, not only keeping pace but outstripping them easily. He would already be there by the time they arrived and even though the dolphin couldn't physically intercede in whatever was going on in his and Lucas' quarters Tony felt reassured that _someone_ at least would be there.

When Brody reached the end of the corridor leading to the door in question he almost didn't stop in time to keep himself from colliding with it, and as it was Tony heard the solid thump of a strong shoulder connecting with the metal barrier. That was going to leave a mark.

"Lucas! Miguel!" the Lieutenant called, even as he shoved the door open. Tony was right behind him, able to peer over his shoulder to the startling sight beyond.

Lucas' back was flat against the far wall, the teenager clearly fighting for breath with his hands clasped around Ortiz's wrist. The other man's hand was clamped around Lucas' throat, not only pinning him to the wall of equipment and monitors but _choking_ him.

"Lucas!" Bridger had caught up with them and he pushed himself into the doorway as well, into the gap beside Brody, who had been momentarily stunned by the sight that had been awaiting them. "_Ortiz_!" The Captain's voice was louder then, more forceful. Tony could just see Darwin in the tube that ran along the same wall as their bunks, thrashing in the water and trying to help despite his inability to do so.

Ortiz reacted to them then, turning his head to them suddenly, his black hair thrown briefly across his face but soon tumbling aside to reveal the harsh, angry scowl on his features. Tony actually stepped back, albeit involuntarily, glancing to his right where Commander Ford had come to a halt.

"Miguel," Brody cut in sharply, "let him go." Tony say one of the Lieutenant's hands moving, rising towards his belt.

Ortiz was faster than him, his body twisted more in their direction now while still holding Lucas firmly against the bank of machines as his other hand snatched something from the back of his belt. That something turned out to be a gun, which he immediately raised towards them and levelled in their direction. There was an audible click as the hammer of a conventional firearm was cocked back. "Don't," the Sensor Chief ground out past gritted teeth.

Against the wall Lucas let out a choke, trying to speak but lacking the air to form any words. Tony saw the fear in the kid's eyes and then looked to Brody ahead of him, whose arm had halted in its lift towards his belt and his own firearm. As Tony watched the Lieutenant took his hand away from the weapon and bared both, palms showing, to Ortiz. "Okay," he said, as calmly as he was able to. "Okay, Miguel, just—"

"Shut up," Ortiz cut in, his voice more aggressive and forceful than Tony had ever heard it. And that look on his face—not even when the Chief had been affected by that stupid ancient warrior's helmet had he looked so unlike himself. So determined, so angry, so _hateful_.

And then, as Ortiz shifted the aim of the gun, Tony's mind went blank. Brody wasn't the target anymore.

Captain Bridger was.

* * *

Blood. It was all he could smell, all he could taste, as what scraps of consciousness he could grasp came swimming weakly together. Trying to cough reignited the fire in his chest and ribs and he gasped and wheezed against the ground, turning and pressing his face into it as if he could hide from the pain. But it didn't even so much as waver, not for a single second. There was no hiding from it. No withdrawing from it.

"_Okay."_

The voice drifted to him from somewhere in the ocean of black, sounding small and distant but holding just enough shape for him to grasp, albeit weakly. With a groan he lifted his face from the ground and tried to look around but the inky nothingness was everywhere, disorienting in its entirety and almost driving him to retreat back into the darkness that had claimed him after Irina's last blow.

_Irina_.

He couldn't hear her. Couldn't see her. Couldn't feel the predatory danger of her lurking close by.

So where—

"_Okay, Miguel, just—"_

Jim?

"_Shut up."_

But—that was _his_ voice. Wasn't it?

The shock of that realisation was enough to clear his senses a little more, giving him just enough strength to lift his head and look dead ahead of where he had fallen to the ground. Straining to lift his focus up, just a little, he could see it then.

Jim. And the Captain. And Jonathan, and—

A gun?

In his hand?

Oh _God_.

"No—" The word tasted like copper and he almost choked on it but with a thick groan and a concentration of will he gathered himself enough to speak again. "_No_." Because he knew what was happening now. He knew what Irina was doing. He knew that she had taken control from him and was using his body to do more harm to the crew. That gun was aimed right at the Captain, and—

He heard a choking sound. But he hadn't choked.

It wasn't him.

He saw the bunks to the right, the computer to the left. Even further to the right, the aqua tube. Inside that tube a thrashing shape. _Darwin_.

Lucas. Lucas was hurt. _He_ was hurting Lucas.

"_No_!"

Dimly, faintly, but with dreadful certainty, he became aware of the intent in his own body beyond the eternal black of the prison in which Irina had abandoned him and he knew that he was running out of time. Lucas was running out of time. And the Captain.

It he didn't _do_ something—

Miguel shoved aside the pain and the weakness, he denied it as fiercely and fully as he could, and with as much power and determination as he could gather together he shoved his arms against the ground. Too late he remembered the shattering of the bones in the right, his dominant arm, but with only a stumble and a bark of pain he leaned more completely on the left and all but hurled himself up from the ground. By some miracle, likely sheer force of will, he didn't fall right back down onto his face. And then he summoned his voice, putting as much power and intensity behind it as he could.

"_**NO!**_"

The sound cannoned into the black and carried outward like a blast, like a wave, and in the wake of that word, that single shouted denial, everything wavered and waned. Miguel felt strangely weightless for a moment, as if whatever semblance of gravity this place possessed was failing. And then he noticed, with a combination of alarm and disbelief, that that box through which he could see his body's interactions with the world was getting larger. Crookedly, unsteadily, it was coming towards him. Or was he moving towards it?

It didn't matter.

The closer he could get to it the better. If he could just _reach_ it—

And then there was cool metal in his hand. Warm flesh in the other. A pressure in his chest and head unlike anything he had ever felt before. Tears in his eyes and a tremor in his voice as he said, the words coming out frail and thin, "_Stop_—"

It wasn't absolute, Miguel could feel that. It was watery and fragile, his hold on his own body. Everything felt sluggish and his limbs seemed locked, stiff, unresponsive as he tried to release and relax and lower.

In the background, echoing all around his awareness, there came a growling thunder.

Irina had been unsteadied but not completely unseated. And she was _angry_.

He didn't have much time.

"Jim—" It was like his voice caught in his throat, as if Irina was taking the words and strangling them into fragments.

His eyes met the other man's and he saw Brody's hesitation, and then his dawning understanding. They had been working together for months on end now, both on the ship and off, at sea and on land. They had _fought_ together, side by side. They _knew_ each other.

And in Jim Brody's eyes as the other man met his gaze he saw the growing certainty that the aggression and the threat that they had stumbled upon in this room was not really Miguel Ortiz's doing.

"Jim," he managed again, hearing the quaking plead in his voice. "Stop me," he pushed out past the tightening of Irina's furious grip, feeling it close around him, choking and crushing and so very terrifying. He was almost out of time. They needed to _do_ something. _Now_. Before it was too late. "_Please_."

* * *

That single word, sounding so desperate and so fearful, took root in Jim's mind and made his blood start to run cold. He heard the panic in that word, the dread and the certainty that something awful was about to happen. And he heard the pleading. Of course he did. He saw the look in Miguel's eyes and he heard the fear in the other man's voice and he _knew_.

_Do something_.

Without waiting, without giving anyone a chance to stop him, he hurled himself forward. He managed to clear the steps leading down into the quarters in a single bound and in that same bound he closed the gap between himself and Miguel. Someone yelled behind him, Ford or the Captain or maybe even both, and then Tony's voice raised in some kind of exclamation but he didn't let himself hear any of it.

Something had happened as they had been standing in the doorway and somehow Miguel, the _real_ Miguel, had given them a window. But it was closing fast. And if he didn't act now then it would be too late.

In the same moment that he reached Miguel and brought his arm up to deflect and disable the one holding the gun he saw the look on the other man's face change completely. In an instant the fear and the desperation were gone and the fury was back. With a guttural cry of rage Ortiz fought the grip on his arm but it was already too late and Jim had forced the limb down and twisted it to such a point that the muscles in the other man's hand spasmed involuntarily. The gun dropped to the ground with a clatter.

The threat wasn't neutralised yet though. Ortiz still had hold of Lucas.

With little room to do much of anything else Jim rammed his body forward, ploughing his frame into Ortiz's with as much force as he could muster and driving him back, towards that very same wall against which the Sensor Chief had pinned Lucas. Obviously caught off guard and unsteadied by the assault Ortiz staggered and lost his grip enough on Lucas' neck that the teenager was able to twist and claw his way free, coughing and choking and retching all the way, all but buckling against his desk and the equipment atop it.

Jim couldn't afford to look to see if Tony or the Captain came to Lucas' aid. He just had to trust that someone would get the teenager clear and out of further harm's way. Even though his back had slammed against the banks of machinery with what had to be bone-jarring force Ortiz fought back, his now empty arm swinging around and landing a solid, albeit sloppy blow against Jim's ribs from behind. It hurt, and more than a little at that, but he had had worse and the threat still wasn't neutralised.

Swinging his body around so that his back was to Ortiz's front he brought his arm up and around, hard and fast, cracking his elbow into the other man's face. He heard the sound of the back of Ortiz's skull connecting sharply with the monitors behind him and the subsequent grunt of pain that it triggered. Using that moment to his advantage he turned on his heel, stepping only one pace forward to allow himself to do so freely, and swung with as much force as possible.

The punch connected powerfully enough across Ortiz's face to throw his head around and _against_ the monitors once again, his skull connecting a second time with enough power to knock him down and out. Jim watched, still tense and ready for a fight, as the Sensor Chief's body succumbed and buckled, dropping limply and heavily to the floor just in front of his feet. Jim stood, braced and a little breathless, waiting for any signs of recovery in the other man but all he saw was the subtle movements that told him Ortiz was still breathing.

As he stepped back he nudged the dropped firearm with his boot and bent, with his gaze still fixed on Ortiz's unconscious form, to retrieve it. Only then did he relax, and even then it wasn't complete. It was just enough that his muscles stopped aching so fiercely.

Ford moved around him and crouched, moving his fingers to Ortiz's neck to confirm what Jim had already known, that the other man was alive. With a glance up and back at Jim, and a small nod to show he approved of what had just transpired, the Commander snatched his PAL from his belt and called for medical teams to report to their location.

* * *

It was like being hit by a speeding truck. Or a freight train. The force of it threw her back in her chair and then rebounded her forward to spill her right out of it and to her knees on the ground beyond, gasping and struggling to comprehend what exactly had happened.

Quickly enough it came to her, that understanding, that clarity, and the sound she gathered in her throat and pushed out past gritted teeth was more animal than human.

Evan was there a moment later, his big hands on her to support and steady her even though the worst of it had already passed. Now it was just the ringing in her ears and the thumping in her skull, the dizziness and the disorientation. Dimly, faintly, in the back of her brain, she could still feel the threads of her connection to Miguel Ortiz, but her tight grasp on the reins had been cast off.

More like _knocked_ off.

That damned Lieutenant. Damn him to hell.

"I'm all right," she insisted sharply, but Evan was going nowhere and he made that plain by keeping his hands on her, shifting one to support her under the arm as she moved to rise. She wanted to at least reclaim her seat instead of sitting on the ground like some sort of fool. "I'm_ fine_, Evan."

He made a low noise in the base of his throat that argued her point as well as any words he could have offered. He didn't move away, instead crouching there close to her as she gathered herself and regained her scattered composure. All the while her anger simmered hotly beneath the surface, reaching boiling point, and she felt the tight clench in her jaw and the bunching of tension in her shoulders and upper back. One of her hands gripped tightly at the arm of the chair to her side, clutching so fiercely that her knuckles paled, turning white. With her other she pushed her short blonde hair back from her brow. She took a deep breath. And then another. And another.

"I'm all right," she told Evan again, meeting his eyes at last and holding his gaze. She managed to do so steadily.

He looked more convinced that time. Faintly she could feel his certainty growing, building, fed by her increasing stability as she came back to herself.

"Just a temporary setback," she assured him, hearing the conviction she had poured into her voice and watching his eyes as it took root in his mind and steadied him as well. He gave her a small nod. "I still have him." And she did. She could feel that. That damned idiot Lieutenant hadn't done as much damage as he no doubt thought he had, arrogant fool that he was. All he had done was jar her, unsteady her, rock her footing for a little while. She would be able to take it all back again soon enough, but until then she still had her claws in her prey.

He wasn't getting away from her _that_ easily.


	16. On the Trail

One moment everything was black and silent and numb and the next it was bursting with light and sound and sensation. The overload was almost enough to send her tumbling right back into oblivion but she took hold of that awareness and gripped it tightly, refusing to let go. Something told her that letting go would be dangerous, like losing your grip on a lifeline while adrift at sea. She would be carried away, struggling against the choppy waters on all sides, and sooner or later something would snatch her under the waves. And then she would be gone.

That thought drove her up from the flat of her back, one hand going to her chest and then to her head. She didn't even hear the frantic chirping of a heart monitor close by, let alone register that it was her own rhythm that it was broadcasting.

She didn't even realise that she wasn't alone until a hand touched to her arm, startling her badly enough that she let out a small cry and jerked away in the bed. Her eyes flew open and a moment later her vision cleared enough to show her one of the medical staff. Charlotte. "Oh thank God," she gasped, shaking her head in as much of an apology as she could muster then, laying her own hand on the younger woman's arm. She had startled Charlotte in return, and obviously so, but quickly enough the nurse collected herself and started to check and note vitals, even as she asked standard questions. How did she feel? What could she remember? Did she know where she was? Her name? The date?

Wendy didn't notice that she stumbled her way through the answers, distracted by a buzzing in her brain that seemed to be growing steadily louder. It was on the brink of being unbearable when there was a commotion at the door, and figures began to pour into med bay. From her place on the bed, still hooked up to the heart monitor and what she had quickly realised was an IV, she watched as Captain Bridger came in with one of Lucas' arms around his shoulders. Tony had the teenager's other arm. Lucas looked pale and haggard. His breathing sounded rough. They escorted him to an empty cot and helped him to sit on the edge of it.

Commander Ford and Lieutenant Brody weren't far behind, helping a pair of her own team to wheel a stretcher into the room. As they steered it into place Wendy caught a look at the figure lying there, seemingly unconscious, and she felt her heart skip a beat. That time she heard the monitor, the brief jump in what had previously been a steady rhythm. With vivid clarity she remembered Ortiz standing beside O'Neill's bed and her reaching out to touch his arm. She remembered how quickly he had moved, clutching her head on either side with surprisingly strong hands, and with alarming intent. She remembered looking into his eyes and realising that it was someone else staring back at her. And then the black.

"Strap him down," Commander Ford instructed the medical staff as they moved Ortiz from the stretcher to an actual bed, and neither one of them voiced a word of argument before setting out to do as they had been told. They exchanged a glance, certainly, but that was it. "Until we know what the hell's going on here, we don't want to take any chances."

"It's a psychic."

Wendy hadn't even realised she had spoken until several pairs of eyes were turned suddenly in her direction and fixing there. She blinked, opening her mouth and closing it without another word, and in that moment she saw the surprise and the relief in Nathan's eyes.

"Are you all right?" he asked her, concern in his voice, but he didn't move from Lucas' side, his arm still around the teenager's shoulders, paternally protective and fiercely so.

"Yes," she managed to respond, giving a small nod before a dull ache throughout her skull warned her to keep such movements to a minimum. "I think so."

"Wait." That was Brody, and he was moving out of the medical staff's way then as they went about using soft restraints to secure Ortiz's wrists and ankles to the bed. "Did you say a psychic?" He looked from the Sensor Chief's prone body and then back to Wendy.

She almost nodded again but caught herself. "Yes," she confirmed. Before the Lieutenant or anyone else could ask how she knew that, or any other questions, she pressed on. "I only realised when they had hold of me, and by then it was too late."

"_That's_ what happened to you." Nathan sounded angry, but she knew it was aimed inward, as if he should have realised as much sooner. "We discussed another psychic being involved somehow, but—" He shook his head. "Where the hell are they? How did they get on board without anyone noticing?"

Wendy frowned. Trying to explain the things she sensed had never been her strong suit, she had always struggled with it, but she had to try. "They didn't," she said, and she instantly saw more than sensed their confusion as they all watched her. Even Lucas, bowed forward uncomfortably on the bed with obviously strained breathing, kept his eyes on her, waiting for clarification. "At least not physically," she went on, and as she looked back to Ortiz she managed to direct their collective attention that way as well. "They've been using Ortiz like a conduit, channelling their energy into him and—"

"Using him like a puppet," Jonathan finished, his expression grave.

"Sometimes," she said. "But not all the time." How she was certain of that she couldn't say, but she _felt_ it. "I don't even know how they have enough strength to do it _some_ of the time, especially if they're not here on the ship with us, but—" Despite the ache in her skull she shook her head then. She didn't have all the answers. She wished that she did, and she was already so disappointed with herself for not realising sooner that something so terrible had been happening right under her nose, but for the time being she was as clueless as the rest of them.

"The last night of leave," Brody said into the quiet that followed Wendy's last broken sentence, even as Charlotte finished her checks and then moved dutifully over to where Lucas was perched on the edge of another bed. Jim went on, "We were at a bar, a group of us. Miguel stepped outside to get some air when Tim and Lonnie headed back to _seaQuest_, and he never came back inside."

"Right," Tony agreed. "We went out to look for him but couldn't find him. We figured he'd just—" And then he stopped, looking to Brody who was already turning his head to meet the Seaman's gaze. "The broad." Tony must have caught Wendy's disapproving look, fleeting though it was, because he quickly corrected himself. "The woman, that woman that girl told us about."

Brody took it upon himself to explain with more detail, telling them about the young woman outside the bar who had seen Ortiz leave the area with a woman, and that the two of them had apparently shown an almost immediate interest in one another. Wendy wasn't sure whether or not that really sounded like Ortiz but she hadn't known him as long as those like Lucas or O'Neill, and the latter was in no condition to help clear things up. She had confirmed as much with a glance, noting that the Lieutenant was still unconscious, albeit stable.

"So we think this woman was some kind of psychic?" Ford looked around at the faces of those gathered. "How does that help us?"

From his place on the bed across the room, his voice obviously strained and catching, Lucas said, "It doesn't." He winced, lifting his head a little at Charlotte's request so she could check his neck more easily.

"Not unless we can figure out exactly what this woman did to Ortiz," Nathan stepped in, picking up on Lucas' train of thought easily enough. "And some way of tracking her."

"Well how do we know she's even gonna continue bein' a problem?" Tony asked, looking to the Captain and then to Jim with a shrug. "Maybe Brody knocked her clean outta Ortiz's skull when he gave him that right hook."

Apparently she had missed quite a lot of excitement while she was out for the count. Wendy couldn't help but wonder if that right hook Tony was talking about, and Ortiz's current state, had anything to do with her own recovery.

"When have things ever been that easy?" Ford countered rather cynically, setting his hands on his hips as he looked in Tony's direction. The Seaman shrugged again but left it at that, obviously knowing better than to argue hypotheticals with the Commander.

"The main thing," Nathan said, "is that we have some sort of explanation for what's been going on around here." He still had one hand on Lucas' back. "And that's a heck of a lot more than we had an hour ago." Turning his gaze down to the teenager he asked, "Now that you know who's been making changes to the systems, do you think you can undo the damage?"

Lucas' voice was still more than a little rough when he said, "Maybe." He gave another small wince as Charlotte continued to check his throat. "I can try."

"As soon as you get the all clear," Nathan said with a look to Charlotte, who gave the Captain a small smile of understanding. He looked over to Ortiz, and then across to Wendy. "And as soon as you feel up to it," he said to her, "I'd like you to see if you can get some answers." He gave his head a small jerk in the unconscious Sensor Chief's direction and Wendy took in a breath and then nodded an affirmative of her own.

She wasn't looking forward to it, and there was no guarantee that she would even find anything, but if it would help even the smallest amount then she would try. And maybe, if nothing else, she would be able to help Ortiz, let him know that they would get to the bottom of whatever had happened and somehow, by any means necessary, they would get him out of this.

* * *

Knowing who had been behind the sabotage helped. Even without knowing what exactly Ortiz had done it was at least a place to start, something they had been sorely lacking before that shocking revelation. And shocking felt like something of an understatement, all things considered.

More than one person had insisted he not get back to work until he had had a chance to rest up a bit and recover from the attack that could have very easily ended his life but he had insisted right back that there was precious little time to waste, given what they had learned in the wake of said attack. Besides, he wouldn't be able to rest properly knowing what he knew now. That information would gnaw at the back of his brain and keep him from relaxing, and more than that, how could _anyone_ relax now that they knew what had been going on? Lucas knew first-hand just how devastating psychic assaults could be and it was something he wouldn't have wished on anyone. Knowing that one of the crew, and a good friend at that, had fallen victim to something similar to what he had experienced with Clay Marshall? It was like a physical blow, and a painful one.

So he had to do what he could to help, and if all he could do was trace and undo the damage that Ortiz had done while under that psychic's control? That was exactly what he would do. If he could do more then he would, but for now this would have to be enough.

It probably wouldn't have hurt for him to stop by the galley to grab something to soothe his aching throat though, he thought as he sat at his desk and considered his options for how to proceed. The nurse, Charlotte, had told him that he would have some visible bruising, and his voice would probably sound rough for a while, but that there had been no lasting damage. It could have been worse. A _lot_ worse.

He had been skimming through the progress of the search he had been running using his new algorithm for a while when someone knocked on the door. The sound of the knuckles rapping against the metal made him jump, a sudden start that made the chair rattle as he jerked, and he sighed at himself for the overreaction. Why was he jumpy? An attacker wouldn't knock, especially not when the door was unlocked.

Still, he couldn't help but feel a little paranoid.

When Henderson poked her head in after his somewhat tentative call of, "Come in," he relaxed and realised with a small sense of embarrassment and shame that his hand had unconsciously come to rest on the heaviest object within reach, specifically the vocorder unit that usually rested on his bunk. He had moved it to the desk after coming back to his room, and a brief but heartfelt conversation with Darwin to reassure the dolphin that he was fine, thanks in no small part to Darwin himself of course.

"Hey," Henderson greeted. "I thought you could use this," she said, lifting a mug in her hand in the same instant that her brows quirked upward in a polite query. She didn't want to intrude.

"Oh, thanks," Lucas said even before knowing what that mug contained. He could hear the predicted roughness in his voice and wondered just how long it would last before he was back to sounding like himself again. "Come on in." By some miracle there was no mess that he had had to clean up after the attack and subsequent fight, save for a couple of smaller items which he had scattered from the desktop himself after buckling against it.

Henderson accepted the invitation with a smile and descended into the room properly, bringing the mug over to the desk but not setting it down until she was sure there was nothing in the way that she might spill the contents over. Before she had even set it down Lucas could smell something sweet on the steam that drifted lazily from the rim.

"Tea with honey," she told him. "The honey will be good for your throat." She frowned a little then. "Are you sure you're okay? I'm sure the Captain wouldn't mind if—"

"No, it's fine," he said with a small shake of his head. "I'd rather be working." And then he gave her a small smile. "Thanks," he said, and then added for clarification, "for the tea." It was like she had read his mind. Normally that thought would have made him smile, amused, but right then it actually made him feel a touch uncomfortable, despite knowing that Henderson was in no way capable of such a thing.

"You're welcome." She set her hands at her hips. "So, what is it exactly that you're doing?" She winced down at him, apologetic. "If it's not too uncomfortable to explain it, I mean."

Uncomfortable or not Lucas felt obligated to explain the process, not only because she had brought him that mug of tea that was sitting a safe distance away from his keyboard but also because he was well aware of the fact that two heads were better than one. The more people who knew what he was trying to do the better, and maybe, just maybe, she would have something to add that he hadn't yet thought of for himself. So he explained what he was doing and what he was aiming to achieve, what he was hoping they would all gain, and Henderson listened and nodded along as he detailed the process. Occasionally her brow furrowed but Lucas doubted it was because she was struggling to understand. He knew as well as anyone what her background was, that she had been raised around electronics and engineering projects the likes of which many of the crew had never even come close to touching, and if anything that small frown was probably a thoughtful one as she considered the problem from different angles.

When he was done Henderson stood there for a moment and then made a small contemplative sound before grabbing a stool from the corner of the room and setting it down close enough to the desk that she could see his work without crowding his space. "I've been thinking about all of this, ever since we found out what's really going on." And that wasn't really all that long ago. "This psychic, whoever she is, has to have some kind of motive. Right?"

Lucas frowned thoughtfully as well. "Other than sabotaging _seaQuest_."

"Because if that's what she's setting out to do then she's going about it in the weirdest way," Henderson agreed. "Because honestly? All we've seen so far is interference with the surveillance systems. Security logs and camera feeds."

His frown deepened. "Things that monitor movement and activity." He lifted his gaze and met Henderson's. "She's blinded us to what she's _really_ doing."

"What she's really after."

Lucas felt a cold sensation in the pit of his stomach. "And _seaQuest_ has a lot worth stealing." With a shake of his head he looked at his monitor. "In tampering with the camera feeds and blocking the computer's ability to track complex operations she's kept us from seeing what she's really looking for."

"And what she's been getting Miguel to steal."

"Or at least copy," Lucas said, meeting her gaze again and feeling that cold sensation solidify, becoming a heavy, icy weight. He turned back to his computer then and popped open another command window, typing away furiously, with as much speed as possible, his eyes fixed on the screen as he watched the system accept his commands and work through processes in order to feed back information. Henderson was silent beside him as she watched him work. When blocks popped up Lucas was quick to overcome and circumvent them, armed now with the knowledge of just who it was he was dealing with in terms of technique and skill. Too many people thought hacking and other complex computer operations were all the same, that one person could teach a group of others and it would all be identical as you traced it down the line, but Lucas knew different. He knew better. Every single operator, every single user, had a method, a pattern, a _fingerprint_.

God, he was almost mad at himself for not seeing it before.

Several other boxes popped open, even as his algorithm finished running its process and chimed its success. Everything correlated and corresponded perfectly, the algorithm's results matching flawlessly with what he was looking at now in those new windows. Lucas could see the pathways and the channels that Ortiz had used, almost as clearly as if there was a literal map laid out before him with bold lines traced across it leading from one point to the next. He could see now exactly what had been accessed and from where, and to what end. That cold ball of dread that had started in his stomach felt so heavy now he doubted he would be able to stand.

Henderson's voice was little more than a breathless whisper beside him. "Oh my God." She stared for several seconds and then looked to Lucas. "He couldn't have accessed so much in just a few days," she said, sceptical, and then she frowned, doubting her doubt. "Could he?"

Lucas met her gaze. "When was the last time you saw him on the bridge," he pointed out, seeing in her eyes that she was following his train of thought. "And this is Ortiz we're talking about," he went on. "He knows _seaQuest_ inside and out, and he has clearance."

"But not for _all_ of this," Henderson countered, looking pointedly at the screen.

"No," Lucas agreed. "But he knows who _does_. And he knows the system well enough to fool it into letting him build a workaround." Under any other circumstances he would have been impressed but the stakes were just too high, and the danger too real. Too great. Too immediate. "We need to tell the Captain. Right now." Even before he finished speaking he was already reaching for his comm unit.

* * *

"So where has he been copying it _to_?" Nathan looked between Lucas and Henderson only to be met by the shaking head of the former. "You don't know?" He tossed an incredulous look at the teenager's monitor. "All that information and it doesn't tell you where it ended up?"

The look on Lucas' face wasn't exactly exasperation but it wasn't a million miles away either. "It's a miracle I was able to get all of _this_," he pointed out with a gesture to the screen.

Nathan sighed, at himself primarily, and rubbed a hand across his brow. "Of course. I'm sorry." He met Lucas' gaze again. "So we need to find out where Ortiz was copying—"

"Or cloning."

"—or cloning this information, whatever you want to call it—" he tossed a vaguely exasperated look of his own in the teenager's direction, "—and then what?"

"Well, my suggestion would be to destroy it." Lucas' voice was sounding increasingly rough, and Henderson obviously heard it too because no sooner had the teenager stopped speaking than she was holding a mug in front of him. He blinked at it, glanced at Henderson, and then accepted the offer. He took a sip from the rim, and then drank a little more, as if that first taste told him just how badly he needed whatever contents it held. "All of the original data is still in our system, none of it has been removed or damaged in any way."

"That would have been too obvious," Nathan ventured, and was rewarded with a nod.

"Right. So destroying the device the duplicates have been stored on would be enough."

With a frown Nathan looked down at his Chief Computer Analyst and said, "And how do we know there's only one copy?"

Lucas didn't have an immediate answer to that, and neither did Henderson, the two of them exchanging a glance and still coming up empty.

That was what Nathan had been afraid of. He sighed again, becoming all too aware of the heavy weariness he had been trying to fend off for God only knew how long now. He dropped his gaze in the same instant that he lifted his arm, and with it his watch. Hopefully Wendy would feel recovered enough soon and they could get some answers from the only person who knew every aspect of what they were dealing with. _Hopefully_.

That hope was getting a little more evasive with each new development.

His PAL chirped at his belt and he glanced at Lucas as he retrieved it. "Bridger here."

"Captain," came Jonathan's reply. "There's a call for you."

This time it wasn't just a touch of exasperation that slipped into his voice. He suspected Jonathan would pick up on it immediately as he said, "This is hardly the best time, Commander."

"I'm sorry, sir, but you're going to want to get this."

Any apprehension he might have felt was quickly squashed, his sigh fleeting before he gathered himself enough to ask, "Why's that, Jonathan? Who is it?"

There was a moment of quiet that spoke volumes before his second in command responded, his tone grave but apologetic as he said, "It's Secretary General McGath."

Nathan let his arm drop, meeting Lucas' gaze and seeing in those pale eyes the same disbelief he was feeling himself. "Great," he mumbled, more or less under his breath, but one glance at the pair in front of him and he knew that they had both heard him.

This was the last thing they needed.


	17. Rekindling

"Care to tell me what the hell's going on out there, Nathan?" McGath didn't exactly sound angry, but he was far from calm. Irate, or perhaps frustrated, was a more fitting descriptor for the man right then.

"Everything's under control," Nathan returned. He had decided to forgo sitting down, opting instead to remain standing in his ready room, his hands gripping the back of the chair as he stood facing the view screen.

"Really?" McGath was obviously sceptical. "Then why is it that we received a call from the staff at Renford telling us that you had reversed course and returned to the area? And why, exactly, did their Head of Operations inform me that you personally, Nathan, had been planning to head over to the station to speak with them, only to scrap those plans less than an hour later?" With a very clear frown on his face McGath went on, "You can see why we would be concerned about behaviour like that, I hope."

He could, and clearly at that, but the last thing he wanted was to explain to the Secretary General what exactly was currently unfolding aboard the _seaQuest_. Nathan couldn't exactly explain it properly himself despite having several of the facts, or what they were working with as facts. It would be the last thing they needed as well, given what McGath's reaction was likely to be. The mere mention of such a breach would set in motion a sequence of undesirable events, not limited to the boarding of _seaQuest_ by an outside investigative team who would only further muddy the waters, and very likely a second roundup of all known psychics. Nathan remembered all too well just how close to disaster they had come the last time _that_ had happened and he was in no rush to trigger anything similar. As dangerous as this psychic they were dealing with obviously was, Nathan didn't want any innocent parties caught up in this mess.

"There was a misunderstanding," he told the man on the screen, trusting his ability to downplay a potential catastrophic situation and convince others that everything was under control. The Secretary General might have dismissed that claim only a minute earlier but once the initial clamour of confusion was out of the way things would be all right. Nathan had to believe so. "We apologised to Mr. Hockler and the rest of his team for the inconvenience, and any concern we might have caused."

"What _kind_ of misunderstanding, Nathan?" That frustration was building, or perhaps it was exasperation. All of a sudden Nathan had the distinct impression that McGath was not only tired, but _exhausted_. Working too hard, most likely. Was there something else going on that he wasn't aware of? Possibly, but he trusted that the man would tell him everything he needed to know as soon as he could. "You have to see this from my perspective. We've got the UEO flagship acting erratically, which naturally raises questions about those at the helm of said flagship."

Nathan told himself not to take that personally. "It's really nothing to worry about," he said. "You'll have my report as soon as we've cleared up the last of the confusion and everything is squared away." He didn't know how much more he could dismiss the situation without truly arousing suspicion. He had to be careful. "You have my word, General, everything is fine."

McGath sighed, heavily enough that Nathan heard it clearly on his end of the line. He saw it too, particularly in the heave and drop of the other man's shoulders. "If I take you at your word and this turns out to be more than you're saying it is—" He paused there, almost as if he expected an interruption, but Nathan knew that such a thing would only undo the conviction he was attempting to convey. "I don't need to tell you how messy things could get." With a shake of his head he went on, "Honestly, given the sorts of reports we've been receiving from _seaQuest_ lately, there have been a lot of questions on this end."

With a tilt of his head he asked, "What kinds of questions?"

McGath looked almost reluctant to continue. He glanced off to the side for a moment, as if considering his words carefully. "I don't need to tell you how reports of actual _gods_ look to those on the board, Nathan, surely?"

"No, you don't," he returned, and he did so with the smallest chuckle because he genuinely _did_ know how that looked. Jonathan had been concerned about that as well, very much so. "Trust me, Mr. Secretary, I was well aware of that fact as I was writing said report."

The other man actually showed a small smile then, fleeting though it was. Sobering again, he said, "I'm not trying to give you a hard time, Nathan, but I just want you to be careful. You and your team have done a lot of good word out there, _great_ work, but not everyone thinks so." At the upward quirk of Nathan's brows he added, "It's just a few people, but you know as well as I do how much damage a few powerful people can do."

All too well, Nathan wanted to say, but instead he gathered himself and gave a small nod of his head. "I appreciate the warning, Mr. Secretary." And he genuinely did, recognising the other man's words for what they were. He saw McGath's small smile return and he reciprocated with one of his own. It was good to know that someone higher up had his back, as difficult as it was to do such a thing from so far away, and truth be told Nathan did regret having to hide their current situation from the Secretary General, at least for the time being, but he genuinely believed that was for the best. If nothing else it would be less of a headache for the man on the other end of the line, and from the looks of things he could benefit from being spared any additional troubles.

Dressing it up as a kindness didn't make Nathan feel any better about deceiving someone who had helped him and his crew countless times during their appointment as Secretary General but ultimately he didn't have a choice. Until they knew exactly what they were dealing with, and who, and how much damage that person could do with or without classified information from the _seaQuest_, a little deception was in everyone's best interests.

* * *

With nowhere else to be right then and no other urgent matters to attend to Jim had taken it upon himself to remain in med bay. Ford was manning things from the bridge, Lucas had headed back to his room to get to work on figuring out what had been done to their systems, and the Captain was who knew where at that exact moment in time. Piccolo had headed out as well, muttering something about Dagwood under his breath as he went, making Jim think that he was intending to check in with the GELF and try to explain what was going on. Jim didn't envy him _that_ task in the slightest.

The staff had set up a monitor to track Miguel's pulse and blood pressure, both of which looked a little high to Jim but he was no expert. Perched on a stool that the nurse Charlotte had been kind enough to bring over for him he looked from that monitor to the Sensor Chief's face. Still unconscious for the time being, and with a definite bruise forming across the jaw and cheekbone on one side of his face, Miguel looked for all intents and purposes like himself. Normal. On closer inspection though Jim could see the shadows under the other man's eyes that told him Ortiz hadn't been sleeping, certainly not well, and he couldn't help but wonder if Miguel had been struggling to take care of himself in other ways as well. Had he been getting enough to eat? Or drink? Come to think of it hadn't he heard Charlotte mentioning to one of the other members of staff about dehydration? Jim was pretty sure that he had.

He sighed, and on that long low exhale he felt the simmering of guilt, not just because he hadn't realised sooner that something was wrong with someone he had come to -consider a close friend but because he hadn't done more that last night of leave to _find_ that friend and make sure everything was okay. Taking the word of some stranger outside a bar wasn't like him. It was lazy and borderline indifferent, and he should have known better. He _did_ know better.

And Miguel had deserved better.

"Jim."

The sound of Doctor Smith's voice turned his head and he saw her looking at him from her place on the bed across the room. She had a soft frown on her face and he suspected he knew what was coming, what she was about to say.

"It's not your fault."

Bingo. Right on the money. Jim wasn't about to put on a show about being offended that she had read his mind either, not when that guilt had to be coming through loud and clear to someone like Doctor Smith. She often made remarks about people's thoughts screaming, and he had the feeling that his had been doing just that. When she gave him a gentle smile right after _that_ thought he knew he was right. He sighed again. "Sorry, Doc," he said with a shake of his head, and looked back down to Miguel. "I'll try to keep it down."

"It's all right, Lieutenant," she said to him and then he heard the shuffle of sheets as she moved from her seated position, slipping from the bed altogether and moving across the room to be closer to him. "I'd say I'm used to it," she went on, "but the truth is you never _do_ get used to it. Or I don't, anyway." He turned his head in time to see another one of those small smiles. "My point is, you can't help how you feel." She touched a hand to his arm. "I just wanted to tell you that you're not to blame. Not for any of this."

He thought about arguing that point, debating it with her, but he quickly realised he didn't have it in him. Any argument that came to mind was quickly followed by a simple enough rebuke that the woman beside him would be able to offer. So he gave her a nod, trying to put some conviction behind it. After a moment, wanting to try and regain some semblance of normalcy between them, he said, "You sure you should be outta bed, Doc?"

"I think I've spent more than enough time resting," she told him, brows lifting briefly before she gave a sigh of her own and dropped her gaze to the man in the bed. After a moment she looked across to the next bed along in the short row. Jim followed her gaze, fully prepared to feel the now-familiar swell of concern at the sight of O'Neill lying prone and unresponsive, but no sooner had he settled his focus on the other Lieutenant's bed than something completely unexpected happened. That concern he had been expecting quickly shifted to surprise, perhaps even disbelief, chased quickly by the first flickers of hope.

O'Neill was opening his eyes.

"Tim?" Doctor Smith moved away, her hand slipping from Jim's arm as she walked around the foot of Miguel's bed to the one occupied by the Communications Officer. "Tim, can you hear me?"

She received a low groan in response. As Jim watched, having slipped from the stool to his feet without even realising he had moved at all, O'Neill blinked his eyes, obviously struggling to focus, before fixing his gaze more or less on the woman leaning over him. "D-Doctor Smith?"

Jim allowed himself to feel that hope in full as it blossomed properly and swept through him. He couldn't help but smile, even with everything else that they were dealing with, moving around Ortiz's bed and closer to O'Neill's so that the other man might be able to see him as well. Without his glasses though it was anyone's guess just how much he could see. "Hey, O'Neill," he said from his place between the end of the two beds, wanting to be able to keep Ortiz's in his peripheral at least. "Welcome back."

* * *

_Welcome back_? Where had he gone? And how long had he _been_ gone?

Those questions and more swirled and skittered through his brain as he lay there, trying to make sense of his surroundings and the sensations that were slowly but surely registering. He felt tired, first and foremost, despite obviously only just waking up, but he couldn't remember going to bed. It was a struggle to remember much of anything with any sort of clarity, he realised, which did little to relieve the disorientation he was feeling. Hot on the heels of that exhaustion and disorientation was an ache, dull but persistent, and when he shifted slightly in the bed to try and make sense of the discomfort it only worsened and for a split second he was able to pinpoint it. And on the tail of that came the memory to go along with the cause. He remembered clearly then a sharp pain in that exact same spot, a white hot agony that had left him speechless with shock. He remembered looking down to see a knife buried in his gut and then back up to—

Tim looked at the faces of those closest to him, blurred though they were without his glasses. Jim and Wendy. The presence of the latter and the fact that he was looking up at them as if from the flat of his back told him they were probably in med bay. That was a relief. And Jim was here—why? Maybe just to check in on him, certainly, but Tim didn't think the Lieutenant would have spent any great amount of time by his bedside. It was more likely that the other man was here for work-related reasons, and that meant—

Sure enough, when he turned his head against what he quickly figured out was a pillow, he could see the figure in the next bed over. It surprised him and yet it didn't, but more than anything he was worried. Frightened. Not _of_ Miguel, but _for_ him. "Is he okay?" His voice sounded gravelly, rough, like he hadn't used it in a while. How long _had_ he been here?

Wendy had been about to ask him something, or maybe tell him something, her mouth closing as his own question came first and she followed his gaze to the next bed before meeting his gaze anew. "He's—" She hesitated and looked at Brody, who glanced over at Miguel before stepping that little bit closer to Tim's bed.

"He's unconscious," the Lieutenant said, which didn't really answer Tim's question despite the fact that it addressed it, at least somewhat. With a frown that Tim could hear rather than see Brody went on to ask, "O'Neill, do you remember what happened?"

All too well, and with increasing clarity as he lay there, but putting that into words proved to be a little more tricky than he would have liked. "Um, are my—uh—"

"Oh." Wendy gave her head a little shake, as if in apology, and disappeared from sight altogether for a few moments before returning and placing something in his hand which he had unconsciously raised expectantly. He didn't waste any time in putting his glasses on his face, thankful for the way everything came back into proper focus. "Is that better?" she asked and he gave her a small nod, noticing that she glanced to Brody afterwards.

Tim still hadn't answered the question, he knew. "I remember," he managed to say after a while, glancing to the unconscious form of his best friend in the next bed over. "It wasn't him," he said then, bringing his eyes back up to Jim and Doctor Smith. "It wasn't his fault."

In the wake of those words Tim saw the dawning realisation on first Brody's face and then Wendy's, and the look they exchanged told him that they knew something he didn't. "You're saying it was Miguel who attacked you?" Jim asked, obviously needing that clarification just to make sure there were no misunderstandings between them.

"Yes," Tim said, but quickly corrected himself with a shake of his head and an adamant, "_no_. No, it wasn't him. I-I mean it _was_, but it—"

Wendy laid a hand on his arm. "I understand." With a sigh she went on to add, "It happened to me too." She frowned. "Not exactly the same, but Ortiz attacked me as well."

Tim was relieved that it hadn't been _exactly_ the same as his own ordeal but that did little to ease the troubled feeling that her words inspired. "What's going on? What's happening to him?" Because he knew there was _something_ wrong, and it wasn't something that could be explained by any rational means. Miguel wasn't a violent person, he never had been, and despite the fact that he had ground combat training and plenty of experience utilising said skills he was the sort of man who would talk through his problems rather than deal with them aggressively. And perhaps it was presumptuous of Tim to think so, but he was pretty sure he was the last person Miguel would attack if anything ever pushed him to that kind of violence. He was no match for his best friend, he wasn't a—

"I was a threat." The words tumbled out of him without him realising at first. He only realised he had spoken them at all when Wendy and Brody looked down at him with more or less matching frowns. "I noticed something was wrong," he told them, hearing the dryness in his voice and grimacing. Doctor Smith ducked away again briefly and returned with a cup complete with a lid that had a straw poking through it. She kept her hold on it even though he felt capable of holding it himself as he took a few grateful, much-needed sips. He didn't waste any time in going on afterwards. "I'd told him to come and see you," he said to Wendy specifically. "Because of the headache, because it wasn't going away, or so he said. I was worried." And who wouldn't be? "I was obviously asking too many questions. It was only when I started pushing for him to come and see you that—well." He felt he didn't need to explain what he meant by that and the expressions on the faces of both Doctor Smith and Lieutenant Brody told him that he was right.

"That explains why he attacked you as well, Doc," Brody said then, looking down at the woman as she looked up at him. "Word got around that you were going to try and take a look inside O'Neill's head, read his memories or whatever, and the psychic couldn't let that happen. They'd be exposed."

Tim spoke up before Doctor Smith had a chance to. "Psychic?" Obviously he had missed something. Something _big_ at that.

Wendy turned her head to him, looking briefly apologetic before she said, "Ortiz is being used by a psychic. It's not a constant control, at least I don't believe it is, but there have been at least three incidents where they've taken over completely."

"Like when he attacked me," Tim offered, receiving a nod of confirmation. "And then when he attacked you." He frowned then, unable to keep himself from being curious about the third.

"And Lucas," Brody offered. When Tim's eyes widened he went on to say, "We got there in time to stop it, thanks to Darwin. I managed to knock him out and then we brought him down here."

"And that was when I came out of whatever was done to me," Wendy added. "I'm not even really sure what it _was_ that they did to me. I only know that it was stronger than anything I've ever felt before." With a shake of her head she glanced at Brody. "If you hadn't knocked him out I don't know when I would have woken up." There was something about the look on Doctor Smith's face that added the words _if ever_. Jim looked a little startled by that but he covered it quickly.

"So—" The hesitation was threatening to become anxiety, and at a pace he wasn't entirely sure he was strong enough to combat. He heard the beginnings of a tremor in his voice and cleared his throat in an attempt to steady it. It was only party successful. "So does that mean he's okay now?" He glanced to Brody. "When you knocked him out, did that get rid of the psychic?" Somehow, even as he asked the question, he suspected it wouldn't be that easy.

With a sigh Wendy said, "We don't know."

Somehow, and Tim wasn't sure _just_ how, that answer was worse than the one he had been expecting.


	18. Reaching Out

"Are you sure you're ready to do this, Doc?"

Lieutenant Brody's voice turned her head from where she had been focused on the unconscious figure before her. They had moved the bed away from the wall enough so that she could get in behind the head of it, a perfect position for her to lightly place her hands on each of Ortiz's temples. She gave Brody a small smile, wanting to reassure herself as well as him, but the expression felt a little watery, and therefore unconvincing. "I don't know if anyone can ever _really_ be ready for something like this, Lieutenant," she said with a small shake of her head. "But I have to try, and the longer we wait the more chance there is that we lose what little advantage we might have."

"If we even _have_ an advantage." It was sensible to be sceptical, James Brody was a pragmatic sort of man, but she could pick up on the first flickers of hope in him as well. He wanted this to work, and he wanted Wendy to be right.

"Exactly," she agreed. "And there's only one way to find out." That was the unfortunate, inescapable truth of the matter. If they didn't try then they would never know either way, and wasn't that worse? Even if she tried this and it didn't work at least then they would _know_. They could plan their next step. "Jim, it's now or never."

"I know." He sighed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. "I just wish I could _do_ something. I've never liked standing around watching." There was something almost childlike about the way the man said that and Wendy felt a rush of fondness for him, giving him a warm smile that she hoped would tell him she understood. Nobody like to be powerless.

That drew her gaze back down to Ortiz. Powerless was a good word for how he had to feel, she imagined. As a psychic herself she liked to think that she was immune to being controlled as he had been but she honestly didn't know if it might just be possible. If the other psychic was strong enough, perhaps. The thought made her feel cold, chilling her right down to her bones, and she gave an involuntary shudder.

"All right," she said, more to herself than anyone else. She gave Lieutenant Brody another glance and he gave her the slightest nod, telling her with the gesture that he would keep an eye on her, keep watch, and should anything happen he would do his best to take care of it. She gave a tiny nod of her own, grateful, and then settled herself into position. She touched her hands to each of Ortiz's temples, closed her eyes, drew in a breath, and then reached for his mind with her own.

The world around her slipped away, drifting and fading from her perception, as she tumbled weightlessly into the expanse that was the consciousness of another.

When she felt herself settle, the connection solidifying, she kept her eyes closed for a few moments, waiting for the disorientation of that bridging to pass. When she opened them, feeling steady and grounded, she blinked and looked around. She frowned, thinking for just a moment that something had gone wrong during the building of that bridge.

She had expected to find _something_, some sort of construct formed by Ortiz's unconscious mind. It could have been anything from part of the ship to a place for which he held a particular fondness. For some people it was something wholly new and original, something created from their imagination and wildest dreams. She thought briefly of Charlie and the surreal surroundings in which he had ensconced himself during his coma.

But this was nothing like that. There was no colour, no structure, no surroundings whatsoever.

It was black and dark and dismal, a hopeless landscape, an endless expanse of emptiness.

Except for one spot. One spot in all of that nothing held _something_ and Wendy couldn't help but be drawn to it. That draw was almost magnetic, an unstoppable pull, and she was powerless to fight against it. After a few moments spent worrying about what was happening, however, she realised she shouldn't fight it. That she didn't want to.

Because that something was exactly what, _who_, she had come in here to find.

"Miguel."

It didn't even occur to her to be cautious, to not rush forward blindly, because in that moment she was just so relieved to have found him that everything else fell by the wayside. The blankness of the space in which she had found not only herself but Miguel as well was still troubling though, thoroughly unlike anything else she had ever experienced or discovered in all her time as a telepath. There was something hopeless and cold about it, and as she moved forward she realised with a sense of resentment and disappointment that that was very likely exactly how it was _supposed_ to feel.

If not for that psychic, the one who had been using the man whose mind this was, there likely would have been much more to find, but they had smothered and censored it all. Wiped it away. This wasn't a retreat, or a refuge: it was a prison.

She had once told Nathan that psychics were incapable of treating others cruelly because their empathic abilities made such acts painful for them as well, but the sad truth of it all was that this wasn't even the first time she had been proven wrong in that claim. Clay had been perfectly capable of using his abilities to harm others without suffering for it, or so it had seemed to her, and now this psychic as well was lashing out at others without cost. She could have argued that the distance, however they were traversing it without sacrificing their strength, made it easier to be unkind, but something told her that that wasn't the case. And what did it matter? They _were_ being unkind, cruel and even outright vicious, and it had taken its toll on the crew, none more so than the man before her.

Miguel was on the ground, lying on his side with his back to her, and when she spoke his name again there was no reaction that showed he had heard her. When she walked around to see him from the front she saw why. He looked unconscious, his black hair toppled carelessly across his face. Wendy could see blood. It looked, for all intents and purposes, as though Miguel had been in a fight, or at the very least on the receiving end of someone else's aggression.

And that wasn't all. That wasn't even the worst of it.

At first she hadn't seen them, whether because she hadn't looked closely enough or because they hadn't actually been visible right away she couldn't say, but as she stood before him where he lay, crumpled, on the ground they came into a loose kind of focus. The longer she stood there the clearer they became. Around his wrists and his ankles were cuffs, manacles, solid bands made not of metal but some kind of unrecognised material. It was almost like _energy_. As she took one step closer and lowered into a cautious, wary crouch, she watched as links materialised from those cuffs, strongest at the point where they joined the manacles and fading, almost ethereally, into little more than faint impressions as they trailed and wound away across the ground.

Wendy shifted her focus from those restraints to Miguel's face and spotted something else. Something chilling.

Around Miguel's neck was another band like the ones circling his wrists and ankles, solid and secure despite its eerie wraithlike appearance, and though she couldn't see links of chain leading off from it she knew, somehow, that they existed. Just as she knew what she was looking at. What it meant. It was a _collar_. Meant to restrain and confine and control, as well as degrade and demean. That cold sensation in the pit of her stomach shifted and changed, becoming something akin to nausea.

"Miguel?" Wendy reached towards him with one hand then, wanting so badly for the Sensor Chief to open his eyes, look at her, _anything_ that would tell her he was still with them in some small way. "Miguel, can you hear me?" Her hand was getting closer. She thought perhaps she would move his hair out of his face, or perhaps just lay her hand on his shoulder. She hadn't thought that far ahead. She certainly hadn't expected to find him like this. "It's me. It's Wendy." Closer. "We're here, we know what's happening to you. We're going to help you."

Only then did she see some signs of life in him, his eyes just beginning to flutter open with a small, weak groan knotting in the back of his throat. God, what had _happened_ to him? What had been done to him? The mind was supposed to be a sanctuary, an escape from troubles and torments, but whoever had a grip on Ortiz had made sure that there was nothing of the sort to be found here.

"Wendy?" The voice was weak, thin and fragile, little more than a whisper.

"I'm here, Miguel." She reached for him properly then, no longer feeling any sense of trepidation or reluctance. He needed help, and he needed it _now_.

But before her hand had even made contact with his shoulder she felt a charge rush through her outstretched fingers. It raced, startling and painful, all the way through her palm and wrist and then up her arm to her shoulder. With a ragged gasp she recoiled, stumbling onto one hip as she tried to catch her breath, cradling her hand to her chest and waiting for the needling ache to lessen and fade.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you not to touch what doesn't belong to you?" The voice drifted out of the dark, almost as if carried on a wind that Wendy could neither feel nor hear. It was unnerving. Almost unnatural.

"Wendy." His eyes were open a little more now, but he was still struggling to properly come back to himself. One of his hands shifted against the ground, and she noticed then that his other arm was not moving so much as it was shaking. Another look at Miguel's face told her that he was in pain. A lot of it.

"Who are you?" she demanded of the darkness surrounding them. "What have you done to him?"

The blackness before them almost seemed to _part_ then, like a veil or the heavy curtain of a theatre, revealing the tall and predatorily graceful figure of a woman. Part of Wendy had been hoping to recognise her but there was nothing familiar about her. Her cropped blonde hair gave her a severe look only emphasised by the strong line of her jaw, and her pale eyes fixed firmly and unwaveringly on the new arrival, scrutinising and unwelcoming. She walked out of the dark with all the confidence of someone at home not only in their own skin but their surroundings, and she came to a stop less than a foot behind Miguel's crumpled form.

"Nothing he didn't invite upon himself," the woman said, breaking her gaze from Wendy's to drop it to the man before her. When she smiled there was nothing warm about it.

"How can you do this?" Wendy demanded, the feeling having finally returned to her arm, allowing her to straighten it as she slowly rose from the ground, keeping her eyes on the woman. Something told her that breaking that gaze, even if only for a moment, would be dangerous. At the blonde woman's quirked brow she went on, "You're a _psychic_. How can you do this to _anyone_? Don't you feel what you're doing to him?" Because Wendy certainly could, now that she was in here. Outside and beyond the confines of Miguel's consciousness she hadn't been able to sense a thing that was out of place but now that she was within its walls? The desperation and grief and frustration and loneliness—they were almost choking.

The woman smiled. "Of course I do." She sounded almost proud of herself. "But like I said, it was nothing he didn't invite upon himself. He had his chances and he wasted them."

Miguel made a low sound, a pained and almost pleading sound, and Wendy couldn't help but drop her eyes to him then. She wanted so badly to help him, to take hold of him and get him _out_, but a cold ball of dreadful fear had taken shape in the pit of her stomach. It told her that any attempts to do so would only make things worse.

"You're _damn_ right."

Wendy's eyes snapped up to the woman and she couldn't keep the surprise, the alarm, from her face. Had she—

"That's what we _do_, isn't it?" the woman returned, almost derisively. "We're _psychics_." She paused and her smile grew. "Well," she went on, looking Wendy up and down, "I know that's what _I_ am. You're little more than a glorified carnival act." At Wendy's frown she laughed and went on, "You shy away from your powers and keep them locked up in this tiny little box just so you won't hurt or frighten anyone." She scoffed. "You have no idea what you're really capable of because the sad truth is that you're _afraid_. And that fear limits you, it makes you small and weak." With an animalistic tilt of her head, calculating and judging, she said, "How else could I so easily deceive and defeat you?"

She lowered then, her motions smooth and controlled, as graceful as any dancer but that elegance was anything but beautiful. It was sinister and seductive and so very dangerous. Like the Serpent who had tempted Eve. Wendy fought to suppress another shudder. The woman ended up in a crouch behind Miguel, laying one hand on his arm possessively, her fingers curling around his bicep. Claiming. The image before her brought to mind pictures of wild animals hunched over their prey, fending off scavengers and rivals, teeth bared and eyes blazing.

"He is _mine_," the woman all but growled, tightening her grip on the man on the ground. Wendy heard the soft gasp of pain slip past bloodied lips and she couldn't help but tense, wanting so badly to rush forward. And then what? She had never been a physical sort of person and she knew that she was anything but formidable. She had never learned how to fight. She had never needed to.

"Get out of here," the woman went on, her voice still low.

"Who _are_ you?" Wendy countered, because if she didn't get _something_ out of all of this then what was the point? She had to get something, _anything_. The woman's cold, hard stare told her plainly enough that she would get nothing just by asking and so she reached, as far and as deep as she could, and with as much speed as possible.

"Get _out_." The danger in the woman's voice was growing and she was tensing, her muscles tightening. As Wendy stared at her the woman slid her hand from Miguel's arm and out of sight behind his back. "_Now_," she hissed, even as her arm jerked and Miguel's whole body seemed to follow suit. Another ragged gasp was wrenched out of him, this one more of a choke than anything, and that one hand that had shifted against the ground moved suddenly towards his neck.

Wendy stood her ground, fighting not to feel Miguel's building fear and the crackling beginnings of panic. She stood her ground and _pushed_, her hands balling into fists at her side as she found a wall and pressed against it with all her might.

The woman bared her teeth then, looking more and more like that wild animal threatening to snap, and with another jerk of her whole arm she rose from her crouch. As she did so Wendy could see the strange energy coiled around her hand and wrist, the same energy that tightened around Miguel's neck and hauled him up from the ground. It was so violently undignified that Wendy almost lost her nerve at the sight of someone she knew, someone she _cared_ about, being yanked up like some kind of unruly animal.

Like some kind of _pet_.

Dragging her eyes from his face and the pain contorting it even as he reached with that one arm to try and loosen the choking grip around his throat she looked at the woman, meeting her gaze squarely and defiantly. And she pushed. _Hard_.

A creak. A crack. A fracture. So small, a tiny thing, but if she could just—

"Get. _Out_." The woman's voice seemed so loud all of a sudden, thunderous, and it came from all around, booming from every direction. Her grip tightened again and Miguel let out a strangled cry, pulled up even higher but struggling against it. His knees had been heaved off the floor now and he dangled from the woman's grasp, powerless to escape it.

God, she was so _strong_.

But she couldn't give up. She couldn't fail. Even as she became dimly, shakily, aware of the ragged and frail quality of her breathing outside of this hopeless and endless space, and the distant call of her name in a worried tone, she pushed and she shoved and she _pounded_.

Just as the woman's voice raised again in a vicious, seething snarl, Wendy felt something give and saw the first glimmer of something hidden behind that wall. She reached that tiny bit further and latched on to it in the same instant that the woman unleashed with a savage cry that held no shape beyond the fury that powered it. It cannoned into Wendy and unsteadied her with so much force and so suddenly that she was out in the real world again before she even knew what was happening, before she could even realise that she was being expelled.

Miguel's mind slammed shut with a distant, echoing boom and she came back to herself gasping and shaking. And sweating, she realised, feeling the dampness of it all over and the way it hugged her blouse to her skin and stuck her bangs to her brow.

"Doc? _Doc_? Doc, _answer_ me!"

That voice pierced through the thick fog of disorientation that had closed around her in the wake of her expulsion and she gasped more violently, remembering just where she was and why, and with whom. "Jim?" She found his face as her vision cleared and she saw the worry etched upon it. Behind him she could see movement but she ignored it even as other voices start to reach her ears. "I—I need—" Her voice was shaking. Badly. "Nathan," she gasped breathlessly. Her whole body trembled and she gripped the edge of the bed before her, looking down at the unmoving figure upon it as she found enough strength to say, just loud enough for Brody and perhaps even O'Neill to hear, "I got something." She lifted her gaze and found the Lieutenant's, using it to steady herself. "I got a name."


	19. Raising the Stakes

Irina didn't know what exactly the bitch had managed to get, but she could feel that it had been _something_. That was more than she had been intending to allow the other woman to get, a _hell_ of a lot more, and the anger simmered quickly and seared through her veins even as she pulled back enough from Miguel's mind to be present in her own physical surroundings. She came back around with a sound like a growl knotting at the back of her throat and almost immediately Evan was entering her field of vision and frowning at her. Questioning.

"Whatever happens," she said to him, her voice strained and made tight by that anger, "I'm going to kill that little bitch." And she meant that word, little, in more ways than one. Wendy Smith was so utterly beneath her that it should have been laughable, but her interference was already far beyond irritating. Irina couldn't stand for it. _Wouldn't_ stand for it. She hadn't set out to eliminate anyone aboard the _seaQuest_ but things had changed. Plans had changed.

Doctor Wendy Smith had made sure of that when she had entered Irina's domain unwelcome and uninvited. That kind of breach of her territory would not go unpunished, she would see to that, and whether she used her own hands or Miguel's to get the job done—well, that remained to be seen.

"I'm fine," she said after that, into the silence that had followed her proclamation, aggressive and pointed as it had been.

The question had been written all over Evan's face and she hadn't even needed to listen to his mind, but she did so anyway, if only habitually. By this point in their time together it felt stranger _not_ to read him and he was well beyond used to it by now. He had never shied away from her powers, if anything he had been intrigued and drawn by them, wanting to know more, _experience_ more, and Irina had never seen any reason not to indulge him. And so they were together in all things nowadays, where one was to be found the other was likely close by, and they made a good team. She would even be so bold as to say a great one.

Rising from her chair and in doing so allaying any fears contrary to her statement that Evan might have had, she started to pace around the open space they had decided to inhabit. With less clutter in her surroundings she felt better able to focus and that had been the case for her for as long as she could remember. It was a preference more than an actual necessity but there was no denying the fact that crowded areas made for more complications, more noise to filter through and dismiss so she could fix her attention on the one thing she was interested in. This space, this old and forgotten workroom, suited her needs perfectly.

"They know more than I intended for them to find out," she told Evan, who stood near her chair and watched her without interfering in any way. He just listened. "But that's merely a bump in the road, and nothing more," she went on, turning her head to face him, noticing with a flicker of pleasure that his attention was fixed on her and nothing else, and that he shifted his position to follow her no matter which way she moved. "Plans have changed, but I can use this to my benefit." She spoke confidently, with the sort of self-assurance that had seen her through numerous years that would have otherwise been so much rougher and leaner. "They think their closeness is a strength, that their bonds and connections bring them safety and protection." She made a scoffing sound, offering Evan a smile that was anything but kind, though that bite was aimed anywhere but at him. "They're wrong."

Evan did speak then, taking the cue that she had laid out for him. "It makes them weaker."

"Exactly." Her smile became more genuine then, more satisfied, and she moved towards Evan instead of around him, striding close enough to reach out and lay a hand against his broad, firm chest. His heart was a steady, strong drumbeat against her palm. "If they need to learn that lesson the hard way, then so be it. I'm happy to teach them." Evan smiled back at her, looking down at her with the sort of fondness and admiration that she had not only come to appreciate but expect from it. "_We'll_ teach them," she amended, feeling a rush of warm pleasure when Evan's smile grew to the point that he showed teeth.

As with all things they were in this together. And as with all things, they would emerge victorious.

* * *

Having the meeting, such as it was, in the med bay instead of the ward room might have seemed strange if not for the circumstances that had brought them all here. O'Neill was in no condition to be out of bed just yet and he had every right to be part of the discussion, and so that left them little in the way of options when it came to venue. It _had_ meant asking all of the other medical staff outside of Wendy herself to temporarily vacate the area though, barring some sort of emergency. They hadn't been too thrilled by the prospect but given who was asking them they said nothing and did as they were told.

Once everyone was convened, gathered together by Brody's message to the Captain who had seen fit to rally the rest of the senior staff and key personnel, one by one each set of eyes turned towards Wendy. She was the reason they had all been summoned, after all, the one who had something important to share, and even though she had only asked for Nathan it made sense to fill everyone else in at the same time. Still, she couldn't help but feel the slightest bit daunted by so much attention on her all at once. Normally she wasn't the nervous sort but this whole situation had her more than a little on edge.

She took in a breath, steeling herself for the discussion to come, glancing around at the faces of those gathered before she started to speak. She had already shared the basics, what she had seen and felt, but the most important revelation was saved for last. "Her name is Irina Dvornikov." She took a moment to gauge any reactions before going on, "It could be an alias of some kind but I don't think so, not the way she was guarding it. It took everything I had to get through the walls she had up around the name and it takes strength to build those kinds of walls, let alone maintain them."

Nathan turned his head to the youngest member of the group. "Lucas?"

"I'll see what I can find," he said from his place perched at the foot of O'Neill's bed. The Lieutenant had shifted his legs to allow the teenager to do so. "Though odds are anyone who's going to go to those lengths to keep their identity secret psychically is going to be hard to find on the Net." The roughness in his voice had eased up a little but it still had a way to go and they could all hear it. Every now and then he lifted a hand and rubbed unconsciously at his throat, which was starting to show signs of bruising. It would get worse, darker, but knowing Lucas he wouldn't let that stop him.

"If anyone can find that information it's going to be you," Nathan said, meeting the teenager's eyes and giving him a small nod of encouragement and support. Lucas' response was a deep inhale and then a nod of his own, as if conceding the point but without any sort of display of arrogance the likes of which would have come quickly, almost automatically, only a little over a year ago. When Wendy had first met Lucas she had picked up on it but it had been tempered even then. She had heard stories though, most of them from Nathan himself, though Commander Ford hadn't been shy about sharing his own experiences with the ego of an adolescent. At least in Lucas' case there was actual intelligence and skill to back it up, not that that excused any sort of attitude. Wendy was glad that she had never had to experience more than the odd little outburst.

It was Ford who spoke next, turning his gaze to Wendy as he did so. "Did she say what she wants?" he asked from his place by O'Neill's bed, his hand resting lightly on the very top of the rearmost rail. "I know we already know the basics but did she make any demands?"

"Other than for me to get out?" Wendy shook her head. "No," she said, allowing the others to hear the quiet frustration and disappointment in her voice. "I would say she felt threatened by my presence but the sad truth of it is that I'm no match for her. And she knows it. The _contempt_—" She cut herself off with a shake of her head. "I've never felt anything like it."

"You never felt contempt before?" Piccolo asked her, somewhat incredulously from the other side of the room. "I figured that'd be a pretty common one."

"I've felt it," she agreed, "but this was so personal. So focused."

"Are you sure you don't know this woman?" Brody asked her. "Maybe it _is_ personal."

"No." Wendy was certain and she made sure that conviction carried in her tone. "I've never seen her before, or heard her name. And I've never felt her energy before." She saw the uncertain looks many of them tossed her way and went on, "Every psychic feels different. It's like with Charlie. Once I had one experience with his energy, his power, I was able to recognise it from that point on."

"How does that help us?" Ford asked, sounding his usual sceptical self and Wendy could feel the first brushes of that scepticism as she looked at him. She didn't blame him for it though. How could she?

"It doesn't," she admitted with a sigh. "I'm sorry," she said then, briefly dropping her gaze. "I wish I had been able to get more."

"You got us a lot more than we had before you went in there," Nathan cut in, compassion in his eyes when she looked up to meet them. She managed the smallest smile for him even as he went on, "And at least now we know who we're dealing with, as well as what."

"So what does this mean?" Piccolo asked, arms crossed and his eyes moving quickly as he looked from one face to the next. "We gotta do some kinda exorcism or somethin'?" It would have been a ridiculous suggestion coming from anyone else but Wendy could feel that there was no sarcasm or anything else remotely mean-spirited behind the query. He genuinely didn't know, and was just as sincere in his desire to help. There was so much more to him than met the eye, or most people were willing to see, and Wendy was sorry for that.

O'Neill turned a somewhat cynical look in the Seaman's direction. "That's for spirits, Tony." He sounded tired but any suggestions on her part that he get some rest had been met with firm refusals and insistences that he was up for this.

With a shake of his head and a shrug Piccolo asked, "How's this different?"

Lucas joined the conversation then, meeting his roommate's gaze steadily and saying with a stiff kind of patience, "Because wherever this woman is, she's _alive_. You can't exorcise a living person."

"Says who? How'd you know until we try?" Obviously Piccolo wasn't going to relent on this idea that easily. Wendy had to admire his persistence and the determination behind it. There was something to be said for those who had the courage to more or less always speak their mind, even if such boldness often threatened to drop them in hot water.

Lieutenant O'Neill sighed, an action that probably pained him at least a little. "Tony—"

Wendy shook her head, interjecting, "No, I think I know what Tony's trying to say. And theoretically, something similar _is_ possible. She's already done it to me once, after all. Forcing a psychic out of someone's head can be done, but it takes another psychic. And they have to have power."

"Which you don't have?" Nathan was frowning subtly, the slightest crease furrowing his brow. He had chosen to make those words into a question rather than a statement, softening the blow that they otherwise might have dealt. Wendy wouldn't have taken the assumption too personally, she was fairly sure, but she appreciated the effort all the same.

She shook her head, looking regretful and apologetic. "I don't think so, no." She sighed and lifted a hand, touching it to her brow. She had had a headache since coming around from whatever comatose state this Irina woman had left her in but it had been easing up. After being expelled so violently from Ortiz's mind it was starting to resurface. Something told her that taking aspirin or any other type of ordinary painkiller wouldn't even begin to touch it.

"Where does that leave us?" Brody's arms were crossed now as well, and he spared a glance over his shoulder to the still-unconscious figure of their Sensor Chief. "How are we supposed to get her out of Miguel's head?"

"We can't just leave her in there." It was the first time Henderson had spoken since the beginning of the meeting. Several sets of eyes turned in her direction suddenly enough to make it clear that many of those present had forgotten she was there. Henderson hesitated for a moment, shifting her weight a little on the stool she had chosen to occupy, and then said, "You said he looked hurt." Her gaze turned in Wendy's direction specifically then.

There was no sense in trying to downplay the situation, and she had already given the basics of the situation when they had all arrived, before her reveal of the woman's name. She couldn't very well take those facts back now. "I couldn't tell just how badly, but I could feel it."

"Wait." Piccolo's face had scrunched up more than a little. "How's she hurtin' him in his own head? It's not _real_ in there or nothin', right? It's like—" Not sure of which words to use he uncrossed his arms and made a small, slightly frantic gesture with his hands. "I dunno what you call it. But it's mental. It's not physical."

"No," Wendy agreed, thinking as quickly as she could how best to describe it to someone who had very little experience with the phenomenon. "But you remember how it was with Clay," she said, and saw the grimace and slight shudder that overcame Tony then. "It _feels_ real, and this Irina woman, she can make it as real as she needs it to be in order to get what she wants."

"But he'll be okay, right?" Henderson sounded like she already knew that the answer wasn't going to be something she would enjoy hearing.

At first she didn't respond, thinking whether or not to be kind or to just be honest. In the end, as usual, she settled for the latter. "I don't know." The truth was painful but lies, even ones meant kindly, were ultimately even more so. "I've never dealt with anything like this before. The closest we've ever come is when Clay came aboard."

It was Lucas' turn to look uncomfortable. He had experienced no long-term negative effects from her old mentor's treatment of him but she knew he had suffered. The guilt she felt for that was still strong, and something she was starting to suspect she would never fully shake.

"How is she even doing this in the first place?" Jim asked, frustration plain for all to hear in his voice. "I thought all psychics had a range, a limit. Are we saying this woman doesn't have one? We know she's not in Renford, so how is she reaching out this far, let alone with enough power to take full control of someone else?"

That was another very good question, and one Wendy couldn't wrap her mind around. She gave the Lieutenant a small shake of her head in response, hating that she couldn't give him anymore more.

"When Clay Marshall came aboard," Nathan said, turning everyone's attention in his direction, "he only did so as a result of Piccolo and Dagwood having that shared dream."

"A dream he planted there in the first place," Ford agreed.

"_He_ was able to reach across vast distances to manipulate someone else psychically." Nathan turned his eyes first to Wendy and then Lucas, who straightened a little in his seat at the end of O'Neill's bed.

"You think this woman might be like him," he said, catching on to what the Captain was suggesting. "Cybernetically enhanced, and therefore stronger."

"But Clay Marshall needed syntium in order to function at full capacity," Ford cut in with a shake of his head. "We haven't seen any evidence that this woman is after the same thing, have we?" He, like the Captain, was addressing Lucas more than the room in general.

"No," Lucas confirmed, sounding pensive. "She's after codes and schematics, designs and research materials."

Nathan straightened as well then, looking first to his Executive Officer, and then his Security Officer. "Items of _value_," he said then, somewhat gravely. "How much do you think that information would be worth on the black market?"

Lucas' brows rose and he gave a small scoff. "To the right buyers?" He shook his head and exhaled, heavily. "We're talking potentially millions of dollars."

Ford took his hand from the head of O'Neill's bed. "And think of the damage that information could do in the wrong hands," he said grimly. He looked across the room to Brody, whose grave expression matched the Commander's perfectly.

"She could start a war," the Lieutenant said.

"Yes," Nathan agreed soberly, and Wendy could have sworn some of the colour had drained out of his face. She felt the dread that raced through him even before his next words had started to leave his mouth. The bottom of her stomach was already well on its way to dropping out when he said, gravely, and with a sense of grim certainty, "A _world_ war."


	20. Fighting Back

For a while it seemed very much like he must have imagined it. Her face. Her voice. The near-touch of her hand. Volumes and tempers rising and aggression so thick in the air that it all but crackled. And pain. Pain so pressing and so tight that he struggled to breathe.

All of that was like vapour, so difficult to grasp as it slipped repeatedly through his fingers, and for what felt like an eternity he fought and failed to take any kind of real hold on it. It kept slipping away and he grew more and more convinced that none of it had been real. She hadn't _really_ been there, and there had never _really_ been any hope. Not even the tiniest sliver.

_No._

The voice came from somewhere, everywhere and nowhere, just coming to him out of the blackness and the emptiness and filling his head. It would have startled him if he had had the energy to be startled. As it was it simply caused his breathing to catch and his features to tighten in a wince. No? But why?

Nothing else came to him. He lay there listening and hearing no sound at all beyond his own breathing, and the low drumming of his own heart. He lay there trying to make sense of it until at last, finally, it occurred to him what it had meant. _No_. It _had_ been real. It hadn't been his imagination after all. Surely if he had imagined it he would have given himself more than the faintest glimmer of hope, he would have fooled himself into thinking further than that. Maybe even all the way. It would have been a cruel trick on his mind's part but it was overworked and out of moves and with no other alternatives maybe it would have been the kindest thing to do, making some part of him think it was over.

What did it mean that Wendy had really been here? Not that his nightmare was over, clearly, or he wouldn't still be buckled on the ground in pain and barely able to move. Because none of this was real, not _really_, it was all in his head, but it was all in the hands of someone much more powerful than him. That made it real enough, more real than the world beyond his own mind, at least until he could get out.

Opening his eyes, bleary and unfocused as his vision was, he tried to find that portal of light and sound that told him what was being done with his body beyond this prison in which he had found himself. Like a screen, or a window, it should have been easy enough to find even with his vision struggling to clear. Even when all but the bare minimum of the fogginess was blinked away he couldn't find it. Couldn't see it. Couldn't hear it.

It was quiet, and dark, and empty.

What did that mean?

Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

God, but it hurt to even _try_ to think. The pain of it was unfair, droning through his skull incessantly, and the madness of that happening within the confines of his own mind should have made him laugh but he couldn't manage that then. All he could do was try to get up. Push off the ground and rise. Even if it was only a little, only partway, he couldn't just lie there and let it happen. Fighting was what had gotten him to this point, he knew, but wasn't it better to fight and fail than to just give up?

Of course it was.

So he would continue to fight. And the first step of that was getting up. And so he had to take a breath, brace himself, and _push_.

* * *

"Look, man, all I'm sayin' is—"

"I know what you're saying, Piccolo," Brody cut in, and Tony noticed the other man used his surname, something he was prone to doing when he wanted others to sit up and take notice. "And I'm saying you don't need to say it."

Tony frowned, remaining silent for only a handful of moments as they moved through the corridors. Other crewmembers, a mixture of science and military, passed them by as they went, some of them tossing glances of varying interest their way, but it was nothing that Tony wasn't used to. "You're really tellin' me you ain't thought about it yourself."

"Yes, Tony," Brody said to him, turning and dipping his head a little to lock gazes with him. "That's what I'm telling you."

That would have been believable enough had it come from any other member of the crew but Tony had always felt at least a small amount of kindship with the Lieutenant for one reason, and one reason alone. "Nah, I don't buy it." James Brody was a ladies' man if ever he'd met one. "You can't tell me it hasn't crossed your mind at _least_ once since we found out what's goin' on here." For emphasis he held up one finger, an upward jab of a motion, of which Brody obviously took note if the sudden frown on his face was any indication.

"Piccolo, c'mon, what does it matter?" There was a heavy thread of a sigh in those words but there was also a hint of what Tony strongly suspected was _shame_. It was so unusual, something he couldn't recall ever seeing on Brody's face before, that it actually struck him dumb, if only for a second. "And what do you want me to _say_?" the Lieutenant went on with a swift gesture of his hands, a wave through the air as if he could dismiss the whole subject. He looked down at the shorter man walking alongside him and sighed heavily, almost theatrically. "Yeah, okay?" he said then, in a resigned fashion. "Yeah, it's crossed my mind."

Tony thought he might have felt pleased by the admission but instead he found himself feeling how Brody obviously felt: guilty, and almost disappointed. In himself? That was nothing new but as they walked down the stretch of corridor they had turned onto with Jim's reluctant admission he found himself resenting the fact that the thought had ever entered his head in the first place. Curiosity was one thing but speculating on it, and trying to drag someone else into the discussion? That suddenly felt like crossing a line.

"M'sorry," he said, sighing himself then and giving his head a shake. "I dunno why I got to thinkin' about it. It's stupid." That wasn't really the right word, he knew. Concerning was a better fit. Disturbing even more so. Trying to figure out just _how_ this Irina woman had gotten so deep into Ortiz's head had led him down a path he would have rather never tread, but once he had started down it there had been no turning back. And one thing had led to another, especially with the Sensor Chief hinting, albeit rather vaguely, at being some kind of intimate with the woman. Tony hadn't been able to stop his brain from going where it had gone. "I just—" He glanced around to ensure they were alone. There was no sense in dragging anyone else into this. "I hope that's _not_ how it happened, y'know?"

Brody looked down at him, frowning. "Yeah." The Lieutenant turned his attention forward again. "Yeah, Tony," he went on. "Me too."

* * *

Med bay was probably not somewhere he ought to be by himself, without some kind of supervision or companionship at least, but his worries had led him here despite those doubts. Those worries were difficult to ignore, almost impossible to deny or defy, and so he had found himself at the door to the space, looking in through the open entryway and noting with quiet surprise that there appeared to be no staff in the area, at least none that he could see.

"Hello?" When no one spoke in response he tried again, this time more pointedly, "Doctor Smith?" If she was busy she probably didn't want to be disturbed and he would go on his way, but he didn't hear anything. No response again. He stepped forward a little, leaning to look around the doorway to see if there was anyone there. But there was no one.

No one except the men in the beds, that was. Dagwood hesitated, wringing his hands a little, chewing on his bottom lip and wondering quietly if he ought to just go back to work and leave them in peace.

But he had come to see Tim. Check that Tim was okay. See if he needed anything. See if he could help.

Probably not, but he wanted to ask.

Before he knew that he was doing it Dagwood was stepping inside properly and approaching the bed where the Lieutenant lay, and once he got closer it was easier to see that his eyes were closed. His glasses weren't on either. Tim didn't wear them when he was sleeping. Dagwood had asked him once. They were on the little table close to the head of the bed. Tim had probably taken them off so he could get some sleep. It certainly sounded like he was sleeping.

Dagwood found his attention turning to the next bed, where Ortiz was lying. At first it sounded like _he_ was sleeping too but after a few moments Dagwood realised that sound was changing. Only slightly at first, only a little, but then more and more. Dagwood realised why. Miguel was waking up.

He had come to see Tim, check that he was okay and whether or not he needed anything, but maybe he could check on Ortiz instead. Maybe _he_ needed something. And maybe Dagwood could help _him_ instead.

* * *

It was dim at first, that flicker and flutter of something more than just darkness and silence, but the more he pushed and reached and _fought_ to find something, anything, in the void the more aware of it he became. In the blackness the very beginnings of light began to form and albeit with difficulty Miguel lifted his head to find it, to track the source.

His breathing caught, just for a moment, painfully, when he recognised what that light would become. And with that light came a strange weightless sensation, as if the ground here was losing its hold on him. It took Miguel a minute to figure out what that meant, what it _really_ meant, but once he did it pushed him to fight that much harder.

He was waking up.

And he needed to hurry.

"_Ortiz?"_

That voice drifted, like smoke, into the black and reached him as little more than a whisper but he heard it. He _heard_ it. And he recognised the voice, especially when it came again. _"Ortiz?"_

"Dagwood." It escaped him in a rush of breath, his heart jumping and he almost didn't dare to hope but he clung to that first spark of it anyway and held on tightly. And he kept on pushing. Kept on reaching. Kept on fighting.

* * *

"_Ortiz?"_

She almost hadn't heard it, it was so faint and so distant.

"_Ortiz?"_

When it came again she was better able to latch on to it and identify it, and it was easy enough then to trace it to its source, following that thread of whispery sound back along the line all the way to that dark space where she had trapped Miguel's consciousness. She was able to reach past that prison to the space beyond and what she felt made a slow smile take shape on her face, a smile which piqued Evan's interest and made him sit up, watching her keenly.

Irina said nothing, simply shifted in her seat to sit up that little bit straighter, and after meeting Evan's gaze only once, mind made up, she closed her eyes and got to work.

* * *

His breathing was ragged, increasingly so with each passing moment of exertion and effort, but he couldn't give up. Dagwood was _right there_ and he needed to _wake up_. Too much time had been spent subdued in this prison made up of his own mind and he couldn't stomach the idea of spending much more here. Trapped, closed away, cut off. Isolated. Powerless. Helpless.

Miguel wanted, _needed_, to get out.

It was like running a marathon, like scaling a sheer rock face with no line to catch him if he fell. Every muscle ached and burned. Sweat beaded and trickled over his skin. His heart hammered and his lungs strained. Gritting his teeth and forcing himself to bear it, to push through it, to overcome, Miguel reached, stretching himself as much as he could to close the gap. But as he gathered everything he had to reach that last little bit, cover the rest of the distance, he heard footsteps echoing towards him from the darkness. Coming closer. Almost upon him.

He was running out of time.

* * *

He was waking up and yet he wasn't. Dagwood didn't know what that meant, watching Ortiz stirring but not fully waking, and he raised a hand to rub at his head, the backs of his fingers stroking up and down and up and down as he made a low sound in his throat, confused and uncertain.

Should he get someone? Should he call Doctor Smith? But maybe she was resting. She had been hurt, he had found her on the ground, and if she needed her rest then he didn't want to wake her. Lucas? No. Tony? No.

Maybe—

"Dagwood?"

He had turned his head away as he struggled to decide what he should do and he turned it back now to find Ortiz looking up at him. He looked a little confused as well. That made Dagwood feel a little less silly for feeling that way himself and he stepped a fraction closer to the bed. "Ortiz," he said back, lowering his arm. "You're awake."

"Yeah," Miguel responded with the slightest laugh. It sounded a bit shaky. "I guess I am." He frowned a little then. "Is everyone okay?"

Making another low sound Dagwood turned just enough to look at Tim, who was still sleeping, and then across the room to the bed where they had ended up settling Doctor Smith. It was empty now. Only then did he give Ortiz a nod. "Everyone is better now." He raised his brows. "Are _you_ better now?" Dagwood wasn't sure what was going on, what had happened, but he knew that it was a lot and he hadn't been told all of the details. That was okay. If he didn't need to know just now then that was okay. They would tell him the important bits later.

Ortiz didn't say anything at first and it looked like he was thinking, before he looked around the room from where he lay on the bed. "Y-yeah. Yeah." He looked back to Dagwood and smiled. He looked—was it relief? Dagwood thought so. "I think I am."

Dagwood smiled then as well, making a happy sound because knowing that his friends were better made _him_ feel better. "That's good," he said.

"Hey, Dag?" He looked down at Ortiz, whose smile was a little bit—Dagwood wanted to say it was almost shy, but Ortiz was never shy. Maybe it was something else. "Do you think maybe you could—" He looked down, prompting Dagwood to do the same, and then gave a small tug on the restraint around his wrist. "It's kind of uncomfortable."

Dagwood could see why it would be. But he hesitated, unsure, looking around med bay. There was still no one else there.

"Come on, Dagwood," Ortiz said, bringing his attention back to the bed. "It's okay. I feel better, remember?"

For a moment he stood there chewing on his lip and wringing his hands again, just as he had at the doorway, to which he glanced briefly, before he met Ortiz's gaze again and tried to think of reasons why he shouldn't do as his friend had asked.

He struggled to think of any.

"Okay," he said, a little slowly, even as he reached to undo the first of the restraints. He paused halfway through. "If you're sure you feel better."

Miguel gave him another smile. "I do. Really. Much better."

Dagwood smiled too. "Okay." He said it more confidently that time and got back to his task. One after the other he loosened and then released the straps, allowing Ortiz to sit up on the bed, watching as he did so and feeling reassured when his friend gave him yet another smile, looking pleased and grateful. He had helped after all. That was good.

"Thanks, Dag." Swinging his legs around Miguel slipped easily off the edge of the bed. He laid a hand on Dagwood's arm, just as he had on the bridge when they had been talking about how things were hanging. Ortiz looked back over his shoulder then, saying, "Tim's resting. We should get out of here. We don't want to disturb him." Dagwood responded with a nod when Miguel turned back to him, agreeing quietly because he really didn't want to disturb Tim. It was a good idea to go somewhere else.

"Come on." Ortiz dipped his head to the side, encouraging Dagwood to follow him. Seeing no reason not to that was exactly what he did, walking along behind Ortiz as the man headed for the door and then out into the corridor beyond.

* * *

"Ssh, ssh. It's too late. It's already happening."

The words were little more than whispers down his ear, her lips close enough that he could feel them lightly brushing the lobe as she spoke. He felt the way she turned her head in towards his, her nose brushing through his hair before she pressed a light kiss to the skin behind his ear.

"Don't fight it, handsome."

But he did. He fought it. Even with the pain that fight caused to blaze through his body, or this mental representation of it, he fought against her hold on him. The arm she had looped around his broken one to bend and pin it at his own back was strong and unwavering, his own burning mercilessly as he struggled. Her other hand was clamped over his mouth, keeping him from crying out while also bending his head back at an uncomfortable angle so she could whisper in his ear and further exploit his helplessness.

He had been so close. _So close_. The precipice had been right there, within his grasp, only a moment away from being seized, when she had melted out of the shadows at his back and laid that hand firmly over his mouth, stifling any cry he might have made in the same instant that she used that broken arm to heave him back and up against her. The agony of it had been almost overwhelming, he had almost completely lost any grip on awareness that he had managed to regain, but in fighting to reach the light that was the real world beyond this prison she had made for him he had summoned enough force of will and sheer stubborn determination to not lose his hold completely. And so he had hung on, pained and frustrated beyond anything he had ever felt before, but _aware_.

Irina's grip on him tightened again, pinning him that much more fiercely against her where she stood at his back, whispering false platitudes and comforts down his ear even as she used his physical body to lead one of his friends to God only knew what kind of fate.

Despite the pain, despite the hopelessness of it, Miguel had to keep fighting. He _had_ to. Not just for his own sake, but now for Dagwood's as well.


	21. Desperation

The fools had taken the gun but they hadn't checked all the other uniform pockets and pouches beyond a cursory sweep for other weapons. They obviously hadn't considered a few tools to be dangerous, and that was their mistake. Irina smiled in Miguel's body, still mentally keeping a very literal hold on the man's consciousness to keep it from wrestling her for control. It would have been a nuisance more than anything, he was in no condition to give her any _real_ trouble, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

Progress through the ship was made easier by the presence of the lumbering idiot who was following along without question, just like a big dumb dog who only wanted to please. The Dagger's loyalty to his friends was such that he would never suspect anything but the best from them and she had every intention of using that to her advantage. For the time being that meant using his presence, the fact that he was following along calmly and quietly, to disarm anyone and everyone whose paths they crossed. The crew were all too happy to believe that everything was just fine if the Dagger was at ease.

Morons. The lot of them. And this was the UEO's flagship? Their best hope in times of conflict and crisis, at least when it came to maritime affairs? Pathetic. It was no wonder really that she had been able to do as much damage as she had in such a short space of time. They were all of them hopeless and naïve and laughably unaware.

That would make what she had decided to do next, what she _had_ to do next, that much easier.

"Where are we going?" The Dagger didn't sound suspicious, just curious more than anything, perhaps even a little confused. No big shock there. As the prototype this particular model seemed to be rather lacking in the intelligence department, even if it did possess superior strength and endurance.

"I just need to take care of something." Irina turned Miguel's head to look back at the Dagger, giving him her best go at one of the Sensor Chief's seemingly well-known charming smiles. It had the desired effect of setting the big oaf enough at ease that he didn't question their movements any further. At some point that might change but Irina intended to make use of it for as long as it lasted. And so she continued on, moving with the practised ease of someone who had spent a lot of time on the submarine even though she, personally, had never set foot on it. Miguel had a perfect subconscious map of the place and she had utilised it several times already, and now she was doing so again to retrace steps the Sensor Chief had taken in order to follow her earlier commands.

It didn't take them long to reach their destination and Irina made a point of avoiding any suspicious behaviour such as glancing conspicuously up and down the corridor to make sure no one was watching. The idiot crew still hadn't repaired the surveillance system, as far as she knew, and so there was no reason why they should be watching this point in particular. That damned Lieutenant Brody had found his crewmate here not all that long ago, right before questioning him about the attack on the insufferably nosy Communications Officer, but he hadn't had the slightest inkling that anything had been out of the ordinary. Hilarious really. They were all so ready and so willing to trust one another blindly and now here she was to show them just why that was a mistake.

With the Dagger looking on with an obviously puzzled expression she used the tools still stashed in Miguel's various pockets to remove the panel from the lower section of the wall before reaching inside, careful to avoid conduits and wiring in order to reach what she was looking for. The data devices had been packed in a waterproof and airtight pouch, which she went on to tuck securely inside Miguel's uniform jumpsuit, tugging the zipper down a little in order to do so before tugging it back up again. It was the safest place for it, not easily reachable by anyone on the outside or by the man himself if he happened to come back to the forefront for any reason.

Not that she was intending to let _that_ happen any time soon.

"What is that?"

She ignored the Dagger's question and instead gave it another _come on_ jerk of Miguel's head once the panel was secured back in place. It wasn't far to their next destination, their _real_ destination, and Irina didn't plan on letting anyone, certainly not some genetically engineered freak, keep her from getting there.

* * *

He knew what she had retrieved. He knew what she was going to do next. Even without being specifically told he could figure it out based on the few clues she had permitted him to see and that gave him even more incentive to fight. The pain was only getting worse but his desperation and determination were increasing right along with it, almost smothering it somehow in their intensity. Muting it.

Whatever the reason for his being able to ignore that pain, he would take it.

Irina's grip on him tightened and she made a low sound of frustration close to his ear, another one of those almost-growls that made her sound that much more like an animal than a human.

It didn't frighten him.

What really frightened him in that moment was the prospect of her getting his body where she wanted to get it to, with so much of what she had set out to retrieve, and very possibly with someone else getting dragged down into this mess in the process.

Miguel couldn't let that happen. He _wouldn't_.

* * *

Lonnie had lost track of how much time she had spent on the task so far. It couldn't have been more than a couple of hours, realistically, but it felt like she had been working at it for a straight day at least, if not more. That wasn't helped by the fact that she had to keep moving from one place to the other in order to properly achieve what she was aiming for. From her station on the bridge to Sensors and down to the command console and then to more than one specific conduit along the formidable length of the _seaQuest_, she had to have covered a few miles already, she figured, and she still wasn't sure if she was even close to being done.

With Lucas focusing all of his attention on digging up any and all information on the woman responsible for all of this Lonnie had taken it upon herself to at least _try_ to undo some of the damage that had been done to their systems, namely those concerned with surveillance and security. She had already proven herself to be a more than fair engineer, having her background with her father's solar station to thank for that along with what she had always considered a natural knack for the ins and outs of machines, and so no one even so much as blinked when she set herself to the task at hand. Captain Bridger had given her a nod of approval, and Commander Ford had expressed his hopes that she could make some kind of sense of the mess they had been left with.

Lonnie hoped so too, honestly. She didn't want to have sunk so much time into the endeavour only to come up empty-handed, with nothing to show for it. Contributing absolutely nothing to the problem they were facing wasn't a prospect that sat well with her, not one bit, and that determination and drive kept her working at the problem even when her stomach started growling and her eyes started to ache from the strain of so much prolonged focus on so many fine details.

There was grime up her arms and sweat trickling down her back as she pulled herself out of the tight space filled with crisscrossing wires and circuitry, what must have looked like a chaotic mess to anyone not familiar with such things but to Lonnie it made sense. She could read those lines and twists as if they were words on a page and as she extricated herself carefully from the open panel she was almost tempted to cross her fingers. Pulling in a deep breath, feeling decidedly apprehensive despite her experience and expertise, she reached for the diagnostic device she had connected to the main line and readied herself to check the system again. She had tried it several times already, at different stages during the whole process, periodically checking to see if she had successfully traced the issue all the way back to its source or if she needed to go further still. If she didn't see some positive results this time then she wasn't sure what she was going to do, or where she was going to go next.

For just a few moments she actually did cross her fingers, literally, holding that deep breath she had pulled in and even going so far as to close her eyes and utter the smallest, shortest prayer that she felt would properly convey her desperation.

She managed to hit the button on the device while her eyes were still closed, keeping them that way until she heard the sequence of beeps that told her the diagnostic had finished running.

When she opened her eyes again and looked at the screen she almost couldn't believe it. She almost didn't dare.

"Oh my God." Her laugh of disbelief came out just as breathlessly as the words that had preceded it and for several seconds she just stared, stunned, at the readouts on the display. All of them were positive. There were no feedback loops or system resets or errors of any kind.

It was _working_.

* * *

Jim had wanted to check in with his team again, in person rather than just via his PAL, knowing that it would be easier to give them a full update on the situation if he was in the same room with them. That way he could answer any and all questions they had for him and even though there hadn't been any beyond the basic queries about what they should do next and how the situation was going to be resolved Jim still believed it had been a worthwhile use of his time. It had given him an excuse to stretch his legs as well, something he had been in desperate need of after all the recent developments.

He felt like he had far too much pent-up energy and no outlet for it. Walking around helped. Sitting still in the infirmary for so long definitely hadn't.

Piccolo was still keeping pace with him, obviously not knowing what else to do with himself in their current situation, and Jim normally would have not-so-gently prompted the Seaman to head off and do something else but right then he couldn't help but sympathise. Not knowing what to do, how to keep busy. It was frustrating. So he had let Piccolo tag along and shadow him. And who knew? Maybe it would help Piccolo with his whole rehabilitative service situation, giving him more experience beyond his usual duties.

They were on their way back to the bridge when his PAL chirped. He snagged it from his belt. "Brody here."

"Jim," Ford said back to him. "Henderson's managed to get the security system reset and re-established. We've got cameras running again. There's no way for us to access old footage but at least we can see what's happening going forward."

"About damn time," Jim said, meaning no disrespect to Lonnie and knowing he would probably have to apologise to her personally later on for the unintended impatience in his voice. "Tell Henderson her drinks are on me next time we're on leave." His guys would appreciate having their eyes back, so to speak, and he would get in touch with them as soon as he was done on the line with Ford.

There was something in the Commander's voice that told Jim he had managed to make the other man laugh as he said, "Oh, I will. You can count on it."

There had been a good-natured barb in response half-formed in his head as he and Piccolo rounded a corner only to come up short, stunned into stillness by the sight ahead of them at the other end of the corridor.

Dagwood saw them first. "Hi, Tony! Hi, Jim!"

Behind the GELF and just visible behind his large frame was another figure, easily identifiable thanks to the distinct jet black hair. Even without that striking feature Jim would have recognised Miguel's height, his build, and pretty much everything else about him. The two of them had spent enough time together since he had come aboard the _seaQuest_, it would have been all but impossible for him to mistake that figure for anyone else.

But the posture. It was all wrong. There was something about it, something almost _predatory_, that made a chill trace the length of Jim's spine.

"Uhh." Piccolo's less than eloquent reaction told Jim that his companion had picked up on the wrongness of the situation as well.

Miguel's body turned and his eyes looked back at them but even at a distance Jim recognised that it wasn't his friend standing there. Miguel wasn't in the driving seat. It was the same person who had been holding that gun on Captain Bridger, the same person who had tried to choke the life out of Lucas, and the same person who had hurt O'Neill and Doctor Smith.

It was the psychic.

"Dagwood," he said, speaking clearly and loudly enough that there would be no mistaking his words. "Move away from him. Right now." Jim was relieved that he hadn't removed the weapon from his belt, which he was already reaching for as he spoke. If Dagwood hadn't been where he was, right in the line of fire, he would have taken the shot already.

"C'mon, Dag," Piccolo added, making a summoning motion with his hand, obviously trying to stay calm even though there was an obvious hint of concern in his voice.

Dagwood was frowning, looking back and forth between the two of them, clearly not understanding. "Why?" He sounded confused. "Ortiz said he feels better."

That told Jim everything he needed to know. Dagwood had been tricked into freeing Miguel, or more to the point the psychic who was hitching a ride in his brain. Now he was struggling to understand what was going on, or thinking he had done something wrong, and as much as Jim liked the big guy they just didn't have time for this.

"Dagwood—"

Miguel bolted. Already at the other end of the corridor, at the next junction, he seized the opportunity their hesitation had presented and took off running, almost immediately disappearing from sight.

"_Dammit_!" Jim snatched the weapon from his belt all the way, throwing himself forward as he raised his PAL in his other hand. "This is Brody, we have a security breach: prisoner on the loose!" There was no time for any more than that, he couldn't run the risk of losing ground if he kept trying to shout into his PAL while he ran, and as it was he already had a sinking feeling that he knew exactly where Ortiz was heading.

* * *

He had made a mistake. A terrible mistake. Tony and Jim looked upset. Concerned. Something was wrong. _Very_ wrong.

And then Ortiz started running.

Dagwood understood too late what was happening, a low sound like a whine knotting in the base of his throat as he watched the man heading down the corridor they had been about to turn down. He turned his head just as Tony and Lieutenant Brody started running towards him.

Ortiz wasn't better. It had been a lie.

And Dagwood had helped him. He shouldn't have.

Now he had to try and make it right.

"Dagwood, _wait_!" That was Tony, calling after him loudly, but Dagwood had already taken off running as well, following the same path that Ortiz had taken and moving as fast as he could. Behind him he could hear Jim and Tony running to catch up but he was a Dagger. He was fast and strong, _very_ fast and _very_ strong if he needed to be. And right now he needed to be.

He had to make this right.

* * *

The idiot was gaining on her. She could hear his loud thudding footsteps behind her as she went, using all of Miguel's speed and athleticism to her advantage to get where she needed them to be in order to salvage what she could of this messy situation. Crewmembers gasped and exclaimed and darted or sprang out of the way as she wheeled around corners and sprinted down lengths of corridor on her way to her destination, knowing that it was close but knowing that the big brute was managing to not only keep pace but close the gap between them.

It was _maddening_. After all of the time and effort that she had put into all of this she refused to be bested by a creature who was barely even human, a genetic accident that should have been corrected, or better yet _destroyed_, as soon as those idiotic scientists realised their mistake.

The end of the path into the launch bay was tight and made even trickier to traverse by its bends and short passages that were difficult to take at high speed. More than one person was slammed out of the way, bodily, having failed to move out of the way on their own quickly enough, and Irina wasn't even the slightest bit sorry for that. The unfortunate downside of those collisions was that those people were already out of the way for the Dagger on her tail, and each impact succeeded in slowing her down just that little bit more. It was all she could do not to scream in frustration.

From within the mind of the man whose body she was controlling as if it were her own she felt a rush of amusement and the beginnings of a sweeping sense of triumph. That only enraged her further, made her push that much harder, and she forcefully seized what she needed from his mind as she reached the control station for the nearest docking point.

The sequence was punched in quickly, with forceful determination, but even as she managed to swing Miguel's body around the opening hatch and into the yawning space beyond the Dagger caught up with her. The collision was hard and fast and without any thought for what would happen next and Irina unleashed a ragged shout as Miguel's body was driven right into the far wall beyond the ladder leading down into whatever vehicle was at the bottom.

* * *

That impact against the wall, that solid slam of body against bulkhead, reverberated through the blackness of their surroundings with the force of a quake. There was even an ominous and imposing rumble to go along with it as the space in which she had confined them both literally shook and shuddered.

Irina's grip slipped and she stumbled, almost losing her footing.

Miguel didn't waste the opportunity, twisting his aching body and ramming an elbow back at her. He felt it connect, a sharp blow, and in the same instant that she was shoved messily backward he threw himself forward, all but bellowing as he did so, "_Dagwood_!"

The light and colour and brilliance of that scene ahead rushed towards him, an almost overwhelming wave of awareness that threatened to undo everything he had just worked so hard to achieve but right as he felt like he was going to lose it all he reminded himself again what was at stake and managed to hold on. The blackness dropped away instantly, gone in the blink of an eye, and instead there was Dagwood and the walls and the hard metal underfoot as voices rose in alarm and confusion. Dagwood's hands were on him, big and strong and gripping firmly, and he looked the GELF in the eyes and almost laughed as a wave of relief and gratitude came over him.

But it didn't last long.

Like a fire suddenly blazing into being Irina's fury rose up in the back of his mind, burning forward, hot and hungry and powerful.

He couldn't hold it.

"Dagwood," he gasped out, holding the GELF's gaze and hoping, praying, _pleading_ to whatever higher power would listen that the other man would hear him. See him. _Know _him. "Dag, it's me. It's _me_."

_Please, please, please—_

That fury was growing, searing and scorching and coming closer with each passing moment. Soon it would swallow him whole and Miguel realised in a moment of blind panic and terror that he didn't know if he would survive it. "Dag—"

Dagwood's expression softened, the harsh furrow of his frown smoothing out and his voice softening as he said, a little hesitantly, "Ortiz?"

"It's me, Dag," he managed, nodding his head, the motion shaky and unsteady as his heart raced and his mind railed against what was coming. Closer and closer. So close now. "It's—" No time. No time for that. Irina's fury was almost blinding. "Dagwood," he pressed instead, his hands on the GELF's arms, and then on his chest, and then back on his arms. His eyes were stinging. "Dag, you—you have to let me go."

The sound in the base of the GELF's throat was low and confused.

"You have to let me go, Dagwood." Because he couldn't hold on. Because he couldn't stop her. He was almost out of time and he didn't want anyone else to get hurt. "_Please_. Please, Dag, _let me go_."

"But—" Another low sound, almost a whine of confusion. "You should stay." Because the crew could help, they could make it better, they could save him. All of that Miguel saw in Dagwood's eyes as the GELF looked at him, fighting and failing to understand.

His hold was slipping. Any moment now.

"I can't." His voice was strangled, emotion and the strain of the fight making it thin and fragile. "Dagwood," he gasped again. "Dagwood, _please_."

Another whine. Another frown.

And then Dagwood eased up, loosened his grip, stepped back. Stepped away.

Miguel let out a shuddering breath flooded with relief and met the GELF's eyes one more time. "Thank you," he managed before the crush of Irina's fury came roaring even closer, on the verge of overcoming him, and he moved before his chance to do so vanished and things got so much worse.

Jim and Tony came barrelling around the corner, voices raised in protests that Miguel didn't really hear as he scrambled to the top of the ladder and then slid swiftly down the outer rails, the soles of his boots streaking all the way down to solid ground at the bottom. He moved quickly, striking controls and punching in commands even as he struggled to focus and breathe, working as much from muscle memory as anything else.

He felt as much as heard the hatches close and seal, seeing the flash of lights on the helm as the launch confirmed that they were on their way out of the bay. Miguel managed to hold on to consciousness and awareness just long enough to see the grand expanse of the ocean depths beyond _seaQuest_'s launch bay before Irina surged back up and took it all away again. He let her do it. After so long spent fighting and pleading and desperately reaching it was almost a relief to let go.


	22. Determination

"_Dammit_!" Jim couldn't help the loud curse of frustration from bursting out of him as he reached the pressure doors just a moment too late to do anything about it. That didn't stop him from thumping one fist against them, every inch of his body feeling tight with that frustration and the anger that bubbled up along with it, tangled heatedly with disbelief and disappointment. It was a potent enough cocktail of emotions that for a moment he felt a little light-headed in the wake of it, his vision wavering and his heart thud-thud-thudding in his chest, hard enough that it felt like it was going to hammer its way right out of his body at any moment.

The familiar sounds of a launch leaving the _seaQuest_ carried easily around all those gathered in various states of shock and alarm in the bay and Jim had to take a moment to compose himself before he turned around again. It wouldn't help anyone to see their Security Officer so affected by what was happening. He had a reputation to uphold, not just for his own sake but for others' as well. Lower-ranking members of the crew, and those within the science teams, drew a lot of their courage and composure from the officers and Jim had to keep up appearances. He had to be strong for others, even when he didn't feel it for himself.

"I'm sorry."

Jim turned towards the voice, low and apologetic and almost wounded. Dagwood was standing there looking for all intents and purposes like a very large child, all traces of fierce determination gone. Just like that. Like someone had flipped a switch. "He said—" The GELF hesitated, making a low, melancholy humming sound. "He said I had to let him go."

He almost couldn't believe what he was hearing. The psychic had manipulated Dagwood a second time, playing on his compassion and kindness. Jim's anger burned even brighter then.

"Ortiz was better," Dagwood went on, his voice taking on an almost pleading tone. "Just for a minute. He was better." After a glance down at Tony who had come up by his side Dagwood met Jim's gaze again. "He was sad. And sorry. And—"

Taking a breath and forcing himself to calm down, he took a step towards the GELF, softening his voice so that he could ask without sounding reproachful, "And what, Dagwood?"

The large man made another one of those low hums, the sort of sound they had all come to associate with concern and apprehension, a deep-seated uncertainty that it seemed he would never really overcome. Another glance at Tony, who raised his brows, quietly expectant but also encouraging. Dagwood looked back to Jim, finally concluding, "And scared."

Jim tried not to feel chilled by those words but it was a futile effort. That chill mixed poorly with all those other powerful emotions, leaving him feeling unsteady and out of sorts. With no idea what to say he gave Dagwood a nod, lifting his empty hand, the one still throbbing from the single pound on the solid pressure doors, and laid it on the bigger man's arm. They needed to tell the Captain the bad news.

* * *

It took its toll. Of course it did. She could fight and deny and refuse all she wanted but even she had her limits, and there eventually came a time when she could no longer push beyond them. Even power such as hers came at a cost and sooner or later she knew she had to pay it.

Really it was a wonder that point hadn't come sooner. Not that she would admit that to anyone. Not even Evan.

The world through the eyes of another started to dim and waver and the exhaustion pulsed through her intensely, both inside and out, physical and mental alike. It was a very literal pain that was bordering on unbearable by the time the right commands had been entered into the vessel's systems, the course set and locked, and her breathing in a body that was not her own became increasingly laboured and strained. Muscles burned and ached, fatigued and overworked, and hands trembled. Dizziness was quick to follow. Perspiration was hot on its heels.

Eventually not even she could bear it any longer and she was expelled not by the force of another but by her own exertion. In the same instant that Miguel's body slumped forward and over the helm console of the stolen launch Irina snapped back into her own body with a searing headache, the agony of it so intense that it almost made her sick. Every inch of her body was hurting and throbbing, exhausted and complaining, loudly, as though she had run a marathon without training for the damned thing first. That dizziness that had overcome her in Miguel's body had followed her and she gripped clumsily at the arms of her chair to keep herself from toppling right out of it. On top of the fury and indignation of being fought and, even just temporarily, _overcome_ the last thing she needed was the humiliation of collapsing out of her seat like some feeble, fragile weakling.

Dimly she heard the sound of footsteps hurrying towards her even as she became aware of the dampness across her upper lip. She didn't need to touch her fingertips to it to know what it was but she did so anyway, letting out a heave of a sigh, irritated and frustrated, at the coppery wetness they came away coated in. Her goddamned nose was bleeding.

It had been a long time since that had happened.

Without words Evan pressed something into her raised hand, already bloodied as it was, and after a moment of sluggish incomprehension she realised that it was a handkerchief. Best not to drip blood all over her pants, she supposed, or down her blouse. If nothing else it would ruin the image she always strove to present to the world, that of someone tough and powerful and indomitable. She pressed the bunched material to her nose, feeling it grow warm and damp in next to no time at all.

Evan wanted to know what had happened. With her skull pounding the way it was she had trouble sensing it as effortlessly as she normally would have but she knew the man well enough by now to anticipate his reactions and emotions in most things.

"He's on his way," she told him once she felt her voice would be steady enough to hide the worst of the weariness she felt. "That stupid _creature_ nearly ruined everything," she ground out, her anger spiking again, but then she found herself letting out a laugh. It caught Evan a little off guard as well, she noticed. "He ended up getting _himself_ out." And that _was_ funny to her. After all his resistance and defiance in the end he had finally understood what she had been trying to show and tell him all along: things would be simpler, safer for everyone involved, if he just _cooperated_. Better late than never, she supposed, and certainly much better than him failing to learn at all.

She had used Miguel's mind and all the knowledge and experience it possessed to deactivate the launch's tracker, as well as its communications, safe in the knowledge that the vessel had been set to automatically pilot itself to a secure location before she lost her grip and the body she had hijacked had given out on her. It was only temporary, of course, and though she had overreached and overworked herself it would be easier when he was closer. _Much_ easier. Until then there was nowhere else he could go and his mind and body alike were in no condition to do much of anything to even attempt to defy her. By the time he was even close to being recovered enough to come back to himself it would be too late.

Of that much, even with her pounding headache and her nose still streaming blood, Irina was certain.

* * *

"I'm sorry, sir." Henderson sounded it too, sincerely and unmistakably so. "If I had just—"

"It's all right," the Captain told her, meeting her gaze without an ounce of anger or disappointment. "You did what you could. At least we have our eyes back now, so to speak. That's a heck of a lot more than we had an hour ago, and we're all thankful for that."

Jonathan turned his head to look at Lonnie again, noticing that she hesitated in acknowledging the Captain's words, obviously not believing them herself, but in the end she kept quiet and nodded her head. That silent acceptance, even if it wasn't truly heartfelt, was accepted by Captain Bridger who regarded the room at large with his hands on his hips, drawing in and releasing a breath that Jonathan thought was intended to be steadying. Or bracing, perhaps.

"Lucas," he ended up saying, turning the teenager's gaze his way. "Please tell me you have something."

There was a computer on the table in front of Lucas and he had been working on it only moments before. Reaching up he took the pen out of his mouth, a sure sign that he had been concentrating, and looked around the faces of those gathered. "Bits and pieces," he told them, his gaze settling finally on Bridger and remaining there. "A lot of it has been altered or redacted, or flat out _erased_." With a shake of his head he glanced to Doctor Smith. "If she's really as powerful as we think she is that's no surprise. She could get into the minds of the world's best hackers and—" He waved a hand at his computer. "Well." That, he obviously thought, said it all.

They understood what he meant.

"So what _did_ you find out?" Jonathan asked, understanding why the teenager was explaining things but also keen to impress the need for expediency on all those present. They had already lost enough time as it was, and the revelation that they couldn't track one of their own launches had set them back even further. Add to that the fact that Ortiz, or the psychic controlling him, had somehow managed to keep them from launching anything else for at least a couple of hours and Jonathan was about ready to start banging his head against a wall.

"Well, from what I was able to gather," Lucas said, "Irina Dvornikov _is_ her real name. Like I said, there's not a lot of other information out there, at least not that I was able to get my hands on, but—" He paused, mouth still open, as if he had half formed his next word, but he looked a little apprehensive as he glanced to Captain Bridger.

"Out with it, Lucas," the Captain said with a hint of resignation, as if he already knew what was coming. "I think at this point we're all well beyond desperate. _How_ you got hold of information isn't really our main concern right now."

That was as close to a blessing as Lucas was going to get, especially since it sounded like the deed had already been done. "I reached out to some contacts." Some of them very much _not_ legitimate, Jonathan suspected. "They did some digging of their own and got back to me with what they found." One glance around the table told Jonathan that Lucas had everyone's undivided attention. The teenager obviously noticed it too, taking in a deep, preparative breath before he ploughed on with the information he had been able to gather. "She's an extremely successful dealer on the black market, specialising in goods and information that others would usually struggle or outright fail to acquire."

"Because of her abilities," Brody chimed in.

"Presumably," Lucas confirmed. "Either she uses her telepathy to get where she needs to go, or better yet, she takes control of the mind of someone who already has access and gets what she wants that way. It's a perfect system." At the look Jonathan tossed his way Lucas amended, "At least as far as she's concerned. The less she has to get her hands dirty and keeps herself from getting caught up in the actual criminal act itself, the cleaner she can get away with something profitable."

"And then she can just go on to the next victim." Doctor Smith sighed as she spoke, sounding weary and worried and looking deeply troubled by the whole concept.

"Did anybody have any ideas about how she's able to control people at such great distances?" Jonathan asked, frowning. It was something that was gnawing at the back of his mind, the idea that someone with so much power could just reach across hundreds, if not _thousands_ of miles and seize control of another person's mind. To say that that prospect unnerved him would have been an understatement.

"As a matter of fact," Lucas began, meeting Jonathan's eye, "they _did_." There was the first trace of a smile on the teenager's face as he went on, "Like I said Irina Dvornikov is a highly successful dealer in rare items, many of which are experimental or still in the developmental stages of their production. Some of the stuff she's managed to get her hands on might never even go into mass production." He took a moment to gauge the reactions of everyone present. "A little over four months ago a company called Gabrin Technologies had several of its designs and prototypes stolen, a few of which were—" Lucas paused, breathing in deeply, shaking his head a little and glancing at Captain Bridger and then Doctor Smith specifically. "Let's just say they probably wouldn't have gotten the all clear from an ethnical standpoint."

"Meanin' what?" Piccolo asked, frowning deeply. To his side Dagwood looked equally puzzled but the GELF wasn't about to ask questions during a meeting like this. He was probably overwhelmed merely by being included as it was.

Lucas looked at his roommate, saying nothing for a moment. When he did, he spoke rather bluntly, "I mean they were unethical." When Piccolo said and did nothing in response the teenager pressed on, "If they weren't outright inhumane then they were too close for comfort, at least for most investors. Those designs that were stolen had been halted for good reason, and were probably never going to see the light of day." He looked back to Captain Bridger. "The man in charge of the company, Leo Gabrin, is still under investigation by the UEO and God knows how many other law enforcement agencies, not to mention independent groups and corporations, for a whole laundry list of violations and breaches of Confederation mandate. Not just _one_ Confederation either." Lucas' expression said it all: the number of laws this Gabrin man had either stretched too far or outright broken were obviously alarming. "Captain, some of the stuff this guy was working on—" With a rush of an exhale Lucas simply shook his head, obviously believing that he had said enough.

Captain Bridger looked thoughtful. Or maybe it was concern. Jonathan suspected it might have been both. "So you think something this Leo Gabrin developed is what's enabling the psychic to use her powers at such great distances?"

"I'm sure of it." And Lucas sounded it. After tapping a few keys on his computer he hijacked the main vid-link screen in the ward room. On it Jonathan could see what looked like the schematics for something like a computer chip. Shoving his chair back from the table Lucas rose and went over to the screen, gesturing to the largest image on the screen, the one that Jonathan had been focusing on. "It's a neural interface chip," he said, sweeping his gaze over the occupants of the room. "It's designed to dampen the conscious neurological impulses and drives of a subject, allowing an outside force to intervene and—well, basically? Take control."

"Wait." Brody sat forward. "Are you saying this is a _mind control chip_?"

"Yes and no." Lucas crossed his arms, regarding the schematic for a moment before facing them again. "What it does is subdue a person's conscious mind enough for someone else to slip inside and take over. It's basically—" He took a moment, clearly considering his words and choosing them carefully. "It's like a backdoor, like what hackers use to break through firewalls and complex encryptions. It enables someone, namely a psychic, to gain access to the mind of another that much easier than they otherwise would be able to." After a pregnant pause Lucas added, "Especially across great distances."

Doctor Smith had one hand in front of her mouth, her fingers lightly curled inward in the beginnings of a fist, the look in her eyes troubled and disbelieving. "No wonder they put a stop to it," she said. "This violates everything we stand for." Whether she meant psychics or the UEO was clearly open to interpretation. It was entirely possible she meant both. She looked from Lucas to Captain Bridger, but not before sweeping her gaze across the faces of the others. "This isn't just unethical, Nathan, this is _cruel_. Intentionally suppressing the consciousness of another in order to make use of it yourself—" She shook her head, obviously at a loss for words.

Captain Bridger regarded Wendy for a moment, almost long enough for Jonathan to wonder if they weren't having some sort of private exchange that the rest of them couldn't hear, before he focused on Lucas once again. "And you're sure this is what she's using?"

Uncrossing his arms and waving them out at his sides in a sort of shrug, Lucas said, "What else could it be?"

Jonathan was inclined to agree. From what their Chief Computer Analyst had told them this was too much of a coincidence not to be what they were looking for. "So she stole this technology and instead of selling it on, she decided to use it for herself."

"Makes sense," Jim said, his tone grim and coloured with irritation. "Someone like that wouldn't miss out on the opportunity to take a crack at the UEO flagship."

"But why Ortiz?" Piccolo asked, his elbows rested on the table, his hands briefly raised in a clueless sort of gesture. "I mean, no offence to Miguel or nothin', he knows what he's doin', I mean _obviously_." The mess he had made of their systems was evidence enough of that. "I'm just sayin'—" he gestured unmistakably at Jim, who was sitting across from him, "—Brody was there that night too. He's got much higher clearance and access or whatever you wanna call it. Wouldn't he have been a better target?"

Henderson was frowning. "Crime of opportunity," she said, albeit a little quietly, drawing the attention of everyone her way. She looked around at the rest of the crew gathered and then elaborated, "He was outside, alone, when that woman found him. He said he wanted some air and stepped outside with me and Tim when we were leaving." She swept her gaze over the others once again. "I offered to walk back with Tim, he was going to leave on his own." Henderson looked suitably discomforted by the idea that any one of them could have been targeted had they been alone at any point outside of that establishment.

Jonathan understood exactly what she was saying. "It could have been anyone." He sighed. "Ortiz was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Captain Bridger cut in, saying, "None of that really matters now. What's important is figuring out how we can use what Lucas has uncovered to find this woman and stop her from getting her hands on the information Ortiz stole for her, or worse still, _using_ it somehow." He looked at the teenager again, prompting and quietly hopeful.

"I might have an idea," Lucas returned, taking his cue without missing a beat. "If I can hack into the Gabrin mainframe and access all the files associated with this design and its manufacture it's possible I can figure out some way to track it."

"That's good." Bridger nodded firmly.

"All that stuff's still available?" Piccolo turned in his seat to look at his friend.

Lucas nodded. "It has to be. He's still under investigation and if they dismantled his database and everything connected to it then they can't properly use it as evidence against him in his trial." That was good enough for the Seaman, apparently, who tipped his head to the side and then nodded it in acceptance.

"Get on it, Lucas," the Captain said, his tone leaving no room for argument, not that there would be any from the teenager who gave a nod of his own and made short work of scooping up his computer to head off and do as he had been told. "As for the rest of you," Bridger went on, "I want thorough diagnostics of every single system on board. Leave no stone unturned. The last thing we want to do is follow whatever trail Lucas manages to find for us and get caught with our pants down."

Jonathan thought Piccolo spared a moment to look amused by the Captain's choice of words but it was fleeting before he uttered his acknowledgement along with everyone else and then set off to get to work. He would probably end up helping someone else, or at least take the time to get a crash course in the work that needed to be do before setting to the task himself. He was proactive that way, when given the chance.

Dagwood lingered, along with Doctor Smith and Jonathan himself, and they all looked to the GELF, quietly questioning.

"What should Dagwood do, sir, Captain, sir?" There was still an audible trace of remorse in the large man's voice, and Jonathan couldn't help but feel for him. Dagwood had done what he had thought was right and now he was regretting it. It was true that it hadn't been ideal but none of them had been in that airlock when Ortiz had managed to escape custody, so they couldn't really make any judgements. Jonathan couldn't say what he would have done in Dagwood's place. Naturally he liked to think he would have prevented the Sensor Chief from leaving but there was no way of knowing for sure.

Before Bridger could say anything Doctor Smith intervened, saying, "Why don't you help me, Dagwood?" She glanced to the Captain. "Someone should tell O'Neill about all of this, bring him up to speed." The older man showed his agreement with a bob of his head. "I could use your help with a few things," she went on, speaking to Dagwood again directly at that point.

Dagwood hesitated for only a moment before saying, a little slowly, "Okay, Doctor Smith."

Jonathan gave the Doctor a small nod of his own, wordlessly thanking her for stepping in and giving the GELF something productive to do in order to make him feel useful. Right now the last thing any of them needed was to feel any more powerless, any more hopeless, than they already had during all of this. What they all needed, every single one of them, was to see this thing through to the end and _finish_ it, one way or another, once and for all.

* * *

The vessel arrived exactly when Irina had said it would, the autopilot that had been set bringing it in neatly and steadily. Without a word or even any movement beyond the rise and fall of his chest Evan watched the launch dock securely, listening to the sounds of it settling into place. Only when the sounds of the process quieted and he was certain it was finished did he step forward and trigger the release for the airlock. It didn't take him long to get through, having to duck his head a little in order to enter the vessel, ignoring the trickles of water that ran down from around the docking seal.

He found the man precisely where he had expected to, where Irina had told him he would, slumped forward on the main controls at the front of the launch. Stepping closer he could hear the sounds of the man breathing and he stood to the side of the unmoving figure for several seconds, waiting for any sudden movements that his arrival might have triggered. But there was nothing. No reaction whatsoever.

Evan didn't take anything for granted, and he didn't take unnecessary chances.

With one foot he gave the seemingly unconscious man's hip a firm shove, the kind of hard jostle that would have made anyone, no matter how fine an actor, shift reflexively in order to catch themselves. As it was the man didn't react, his body responding to the shove as any unconscious form would: he slumped out of the chair completely, buckling to the floor unresponsively. There was no sign of any effort to catch himself or soften his landing and Evan was satisfied that there were no games being played.

He wasted no time after that, moving around the chair and reaching down to take hold of the open collar of the unconscious man's uniform, bunching the material in his hand fully and firmly enough that he could use it to heave the body up off the ground. He could have carried him but it was tight quarters enough as it was and Evan decided it was just as easy to drag the man out. He could lift him up and carry him once they were clear of the launch.

That was precisely what he did, not saying a word and not even looking back after thumping the panel that triggered the launch's doors to seal again. Without hesitation Evan made his way back to Irina, the unconscious man slung limply over his shoulder, safe in the knowledge that the _seaQuest_'s crew would never find the docking point, the vessel secured to it, or the man it had carried here.

And if they did? It would be much too late, and he and Irina, along with everything she had worked so hard to acquire, would be long gone.


	23. The Lion's Den

Tim couldn't believe what he was hearing. As much as he understood the words that had been said to him he was failing to comprehend them even a full minute after Doctor Smith had spoken them. "Why would he do that?" he said at last, not even attempting to hide the incredulity in his voice, noticing with a flicker of guilt that Wendy frowned almost ruefully. "Tell Dagwood to let him go like that." The clarification of what he had meant hadn't been necessary, he knew, but it had tumbled out of him all the same. The GELF in question looked his way, looking just as remorseful as Doctor Smith had a moment ago.

No, more so. _Much_ more, actually. Tim silently chided himself, wishing he had chosen his words more carefully. If nothing else he could have been gentler in his delivery, he knew. He really needed to be more conscious of his tone. It wasn't really all that long ago that Henderson had told him, none too pointedly, how he came across sometimes. And when it came to people like Dagwood? Those who took things to heart and were pained by words much more than actions? It was even more important to be mindful. "I'm sorry, Dagwood," he said to the large man who looked his way, still appearing cowed and regretful. "I didn't mean—you didn't do anything wrong. Okay?" He held the GELF's gaze, glad that Dagwood felt comfortable doing the same in return. "You tried to help. That's a good thing."

For a few moments there was nothing said, and Dagwood appeared thoughtful and uncertain. Eventually though he gave a nod of his head and saw fit to settle himself onto a stool nearby. Tim took that as a sign of acceptance as much as the nod. If he was comfortable enough to sit down then that was good.

Doctor Smith seized the opportunity to respond to Tim at last, saying, "He must have thought it was safer to go than to stay." She sounded sorry, as though she had something to be sorry _for_. As far as Tim was concerned nothing could have been farther from the truth but he could understand why she would feel that way. Not only was she a deeply emotional person, feeling and sensing those emotions keenly, but he knew she was blaming herself for not recognising the presence of another psychic before it was too late.

Wendy looked him in the eye then. Knowingly.

Tim felt a flush of shame, certain that it coloured his cheeks if her soft smile was anything to go by. With a brief clearing of his throat he got them back to the matter at hand, "Safer for who, though?" Any way he looked at the situation they had all found themselves in it was awful and dangerous and unpredictable. "For him?" Tim shook his head. "It sure doesn't sound like it." Especially not if Miguel was hurrying off to meet up with this Irina woman, the one behind this whole mess.

"No," Wendy agreed, matter-of-factly. "But I don't think he did it for himself," she went on, sounding certain. "I think he did it for _us_."

That was it. Right there. The moment when everything clicked into place and just made _sense_. Doctor Smith had hit the nail on the head and Tim couldn't believe he hadn't seen it sooner. Because of _course_ Miguel would have done it for everyone else, for everyone but himself. Of course he would have thrown himself on the proverbial sword to try and save everyone else. They had been friends for years now and Tim knew the sort of man that Miguel Ortiz was. Selfless, thoughtful, considerate, and determined.

Of course he had sacrificed himself to protect the rest of the crew.

That didn't make it any easier to accept though. If anything that made it even harder, knowing that his best friend had sent himself off to face God only knew what kind of danger, and alone at that. Hadn't he already put himself through enough by this point? Even if his actions and motivations were noble, honourable, the sort of thing they had all come to expect from the _seaQuest_'s Sensor Chief, that didn't make them any less terrifying to come to terms with.

"So—" Tim had to take a breath, regretting the forced depth of it as his abdomen twinged painfully. "What now?"

"Lucas is hoping to find a way to track this implant that we think she's using." Doctor Smith lifted her brows and shook her head a little. "After that? Who knows?" After a brief pause she went on, "I'm sure the Captain will do everything in his power to help Ortiz."

From his place on the stool nearby Dagwood said, "We have to save him."

Wendy turned her head to look at him. "We will, Dagwood." Tim noticed she said _will_ instead of _try_. "We're not giving up hope."

Dagwood's utterance of a simple, "Okay," was quiet and almost a little uncertain, but he went back to sitting silently and doing his best to stay out of the way.

Tim couldn't help but share Dagwood's concern, and his doubt. As many times as the _seaQuest_ and her crew had faced the odds, oftentimes insurmountable ones at that, and overcome them, things felt different this time. More uncertain, more dangerous, and that much more frightening as a result. Even without his faith and all the fears and anxieties that that added to any situation Tim would have been scared of what might happen next. He wasn't only afraid for himself, something he was all too used to at this point in his life, but the rest of the crew as well.

But mostly it was for Miguel and what might happen to him if they couldn't get to him in time.

They had to. They had to make it. Tim couldn't bring himself to believe anything else. He couldn't bear to think of any other outcome. Anything else was just too terrifying to consider, and therefore, something he just couldn't face.

They _had_ to make it. They just had to.

* * *

It was the harsh impact against the floor that woke him, not all the way at first but enough for him to hear someone say, in a dry but oddly fond tone, "Now, now, Evan. Easy with the merchandise." There was a moment of quiet before the same voice added, "We wouldn't want all of our hard work to go to waste, would we?" After that the sounds wavered and dipped out for a while, becoming distant and echoed and hard to make out. For a while, there was no determining how long, everything drifted away and faded to black.

And then there was a pressure around his waist, uncomfortable enough in the position he had been dropped into that it roused him to the point where he could open his eyes and see a face looking down at him.

Irina.

Dread raced through him, chased quickly by the knowledge that _he_ had done this. _He_ had come here. If nothing else he had convinced Dagwood to let him go, let him get into the launch, and then he had surrendered to the fierce onslaught of Irina's power as she fought to take control.

"Welcome back, handsome." She was smiling, showing teeth, and she used one hand to brush his hair out of his face. His attempt to shy away was futile, given her position on top of him, crouched astride his waist and pressing just enough of her weight down on his hips to remind him who was in charge in this situation, at least as far as she was concerned. Her hand moved to his jaw and took hold of it on either side, holding his head in place and making sure he looked her in the eye as she said, "You're damn right I am."

With her other hand she jerked down the zipper on his jumpsuit and reached inside, retrieving the data packets. She released his jaw only to crack the palm of her hand across his face in a hard, harsh slap. By the time he recovered enough from the force and shock of it to open his eyes again she had risen from her crouch, applying just enough pressure as she did so to ensure he felt it in a low, dull ache through his pelvis. Miguel groaned and struggled to roll over, to get his hands and knees to the ground so he could push himself up off the concrete. Easier said than done, he realised, as his body protested with aches and jolts of pain, lingering souvenirs from the fall. A glance to his side told him just who had dropped him, and why it had been such a heavy fall. The man Irina called Evan wasn't small by any stretch of the imagination. He was big enough to give someone like Dagwood a run for their money.

Somehow, despite feeling like he couldn't catch his breath, despite the aching in his chest, he managed to say, "That's it."

From somewhere nearby Irina said slowly, "I beg your pardon?"

He wasn't going to be able to get all the way up off the ground yet, he knew, so he settled for getting his knees under him and pulling himself up into something at least resembling a dignified position. It wasn't much, but he was going to have to take what he could get. Miguel knew that. "I said that's it," he told her, breathing heavily. "You've got what you wanted." He did his best to inject as much resentment as he could into those words, but all things considered, taking into account what she now held in her hands, it didn't feel like much at all.

Irina's brows rose as she walked back towards him, covering the distance in steady, easy strides. "Oh, I did, did I?" She backhanded him that time, a sharp strike that almost threw him right back down to the floor. By quickly and awkwardly planting one hand down against the concrete he was able to keep his balance. Just barely.

"Don't presume to tell me what I want." Irina's voice had more of an edge to it now, her temper riled. Instead of striking his face again she caught her fingers through his thick hair and pulled his head back, making him gasp. "I like you, Miguel," she said to him, but it was with a trace of that feral growl that she did so, "but you're on thin ice right now. _Very_ thin ice, in fact."

He could have grabbed at her wrist, or her arm, or even tried to lash out at her some other way but he knew better by now. It would be wasted effort and all it would really accomplish would be the provoking of more ire, perhaps not just from Irina herself either. Evan was watching everything, Miguel had noticed, every muscle in his large frame poised and ready to strike at any moment. For all of his own combat training and experience Miguel didn't think he would last five minutes against the other man, especially not in his current condition. Maybe, when he was at his best, he would stand _some_ kind of chance, but now? There was no way.

Irina held his gaze for several long moments, her expression severe and unwavering, before she used her grip in his hair to toss him aside. It was more of a painful shove really, her fingers catching sharply in his hair with the rough motion, and he managed to catch himself with his hand again. For a few seconds he stayed like that, bowed halfway over, his jaw clenched and teeth gritted, breathing heavily through the worst of the indignation and frustration.

"You can resent me all you want, Miguel," she said to him, sounding more controlled and composed now. "But the fact of the matter is you _helped_ me to get this information." That made him lift his head, at least enough to throw a glare in her direction. She laughed, low and quiet. "You can blame me and my abilities until you're blue in the face, handsome, but let's not pretend that you didn't make a conscious choice to acquire these." She held up the data packets then, still safely sealed in their airtight and waterproof casing.

"You threatened my friends. My _family_." That hand on the ground curled inward, forming a fist.

"Yes," she agreed, almost indifferently. "I did." She regarded him levelly, tilting her head just a fraction. "But I only acted on that threat when you forced my hand."

Miguel couldn't believe what he was hearing. He had heard it before of course, in that endless black expanse in his mind where she had cornered and confronted him while they were separated by not only countless miles but several thousand feet of ocean. There was no point in trying to change her view on the subject, he knew, as much as it boiled his blood to be blamed in any way for her decisions to do what had been done to Tim and Wendy, and Lucas as well, even if that attack had been interrupted, and ultimately averted. Thank God.

"The question is," Irina said, narrowing her eyes, considering him carefully and at length, "is that lesson well and truly learned now, or are we going to continue to have trouble?"

That stopped any thoughts he might have been having dead in their tracks, just about derailing them altogether. "What?"

"Well, like I told you before, Miguel, I'm a businesswoman." She gave him a smile. "I'm not about to discard a perfectly good asset when it's right in front of me. That would be foolish of me, not to mention wasteful." Her smile grew as she took in the dawning realisation that swept across his face. "What?" she asked him, feigning innocence. "You didn't really think it was going to be over and done with, just like that. Did you?"

He almost told her that she had promised him, that she had assured him she would release him once she had gotten what she wanted, but it felt so childish and pitiable that he didn't even bother attempting to shape the words. Instead he found himself realising with a sense of sinking dread that she had never specified exactly _when_ she would have everything she wanted from him. She had specifically, cunningly, left that part out. "_Maldito seas_," he ground out at her, fully expecting her to comprehend what he was saying by using those wretched powers of hers and from the look on her face that was exactly what she had done.

Just when he had started to think it wasn't possible for him to hate her any more than he already did.

"Don't be nasty, Miguel," she said to him, adopting a tone that wouldn't have been out of place in a classroom, with a teacher chastising an unruly, disrespectful student. "It doesn't suit you."

Insults and curses wouldn't help him, and they wouldn't faze her in the least, he knew that, but it felt better than staying silent. She would take that not as a sign of strength, but instead as a show of weakness. Submission. _Surrender_. And Miguel wasn't going to let her have that. "I won't help you anymore."

"Isn't that what you said last time?" She was right, of course, he _had_ said that to her before, but he had fought her. He would do that again. Irina's smile took on an almost pitying edge. "And look how that worked out for you," she added, her tone once again matter-of-fact, but with just a hint of derision, as if it was foolish of him to even try and refuse her.

Miguel shook his head, his frustration simmering, well on its way to boiling point. "What do you expect me to be able to do after this? My UEO clearance will be stripped, I won't be able to access anything of value." How she couldn't see that for herself was beyond him. She had targeted him _because_ of his clearance, because of what he could access as a result of that. Without that surely he would be useless to her.

But Irina didn't seem troubled in the least. "Not _officially_, no," she said, sounding confident and at ease, comfortable in her surroundings and the situation at large. "But you've already proven yourself to be more than resourceful, Miguel. I have no doubt you'll continue to do so, even without that uniform." Irina's smile became almost suggestive then, one brow quirking upward to make the expression that much more so.

Miguel felt his stomach threaten to turn.

Her smile grew wider. "Oh, don't give me that look. You didn't have a problem getting up close and personal with me when we met, remember?" She obviously picked up on the sense of shame that surged up in him then, if her widening smile and accompanying laughter were any indication. She quickly sobered though, at least enough to sound almost business-like when she said, "And I gave you the opportunity to make things easier on yourself by just _cooperating_ early on. It was your choice to do this the hard way." Her brows lifted and she inclined her head, silently scolding. "Now," she went on, pausing just long enough to draw in a breath, "we can either _continue_ to do this the hard way, or you can not only accept your situation, but _embrace_ it. Just like before, handsome, the choice is yours. Not mine."

He wanted to tell her she was wrong, that she was delusional, out of her mind, possibly the craziest person he had ever had the misfortune of not only meeting but dealing with, but he knew, in spite of how passionately he felt every last bit of it, it would all fall on deaf ears. She wouldn't listen, and she certainly wouldn't accept any of it. In her mind she was right and he was wrong and that was that. People like her never listened to reason when it was presented to them because they believed with full conviction that they were already _being_ reasonable and rational and logical. People who always believed themselves to be in the right wouldn't hear anything else.

"You might as well say it, Miguel," she told him then, her expression growing weary. "For poor Evan's sake if nothing else. _I_ can read your mind, but he most certainly cannot." She canted her head slightly to one side. Slightly, but pointedly. "You're just being rude otherwise."

Miguel glanced to the man in question, noticing that Evan was looking his way for a change. He had noticed that the other man spent a great deal of his time watching Irina rather than anyone or anything else. What exactly that meant he couldn't be sure yet but it was worth noting. "He must have heard it all before," he ended up saying, glancing back at Irina. "At this point I'm thinking he's the only person who _doesn't_ think you're out of your mind."

It happened so fast, so utterly without warning, that he didn't even realise he had been struck at first until he felt himself hit the floor, _hard_. The single blow had caught him across the face, snapping his head to the side and completely shattering what little balance he had managed to scrape together. Miguel tasted blood in his mouth and screwed his eyes shut tightly against the painful and disorienting ringing in his ears, even as the pain of the blow throbbed through first his face and then his entire skull. A thick groan rolled at the back of his throat and he hissed through his teeth, struggling to collect himself both physically and mentally.

_God_. It was like he had been struck with a sledgehammer.

"If I were you," came Irina's voice from not far away, managing to pierce through that ringing that was stubbornly refusing to lessen, let alone cease. "I would watch what you say around Evan." Her voice was much closer then when she said, "He's rather protective."

A hand touched to his hair then, his face turned downward towards the ground. Miguel couldn't help but flinch, startled and discomforted by the contact, very much the latter once he realised whose hand it was. He moved his arm closer to his head, shielding his face that little bit more, as much to conceal that discomfort as anything else.

But there was no fooling Irina, whose laugh was a low, almost catlike roll of sound. "You two will learn to get along, I'm sure," she said, her tone unnervingly fond, her hand once again touching to his hair. It took Miguel a moment to realise she wasn't just touching his head, but _stroking_ it. Involuntarily he shuddered, curling that little bit more into himself where he had buckled down to the ground. The taste of blood in his mouth was getting thicker and heavier. He would have no choice but to cough or spit it out soon.

"Now," Irina said, business-like once more as she rose from what Miguel presumed was a crouch, taking her fingers from his hair but not before she gave the curled lengths a short but sharp and decidedly pointed tug. "Are you going to behave yourself, or do I have to take precautions?"

Precautions. There was no telling what she really meant by that but just by letting his imagination run for a minute Miguel could take a halfway decent guess. Nothing he imagined appealed in the slightest but neither did the idea of _behaving himself_, as Irina had put it, and simply going along with her idea of how things were going to be now.

Irina sighed. "Fine," she said. "Have it your way."

A large, strong hand, possibly the exact same one that had landed that devastating blow, caught and twisted in the back of his uniform and gave a single upward tug that easily brought him back to his feet. Miguel struggled to get them under him properly, his skull still ringing and throbbing, and unconsciously he grabbed at the arm that was holding him up. If Evan was bothered by that he didn't show it, obviously confident that there was nothing to be concerned about.

There was a spatter of blood on the ground, Miguel noticed once he was fairly sure his legs weren't going to fold underneath him. When Evan had pulled up, roughly and forcefully, he had coughed a mouthful of it out onto the concrete. The taste was still strong in his mouth, strong enough that he suspected that single blow had been hard enough to slice the inside of his cheek open against his own teeth. A moment of careful exploration with his tongue confirmed as much and he couldn't help but wince at the sharp stinging pain that lingered there.

Irina was in front of him then, having moved without him noticing while he was distracted by the blood and its origins. When she reached up he tried to shy away but Evan gave him a single jerk in his grasp that warned him to stay still. Miguel almost struggled instinctively despite himself but the power behind that single blow made him think twice and he caught himself before he could make things worse. With a smile Irina laid her hand on his face, her fingers on one side and her thumb on the other before the latter moved and ran across his bottom lip. Another involuntary flinch caused Evan to give the back of his uniform another warning tug which stilled him long enough for Irina to close what little gap there was between them and press a brief but firm kiss against his lips.

Miguel felt Evan's other hand close, vice-like, around his wrist, and it was only then that he realised he had been about to use his free arm to shove or strike at Irina. Evan wasted no time in twisting it up behind his back and pinning it there. His shoulder ached hotly and his elbow followed suit moments later and he gasped despite himself.

"Things would be a lot easier, not to mention less painful," Irina said, "if you just behaved yourself." She touched her hand to his face again, sighing softly and shaking her head with an air of disappointment. "Just keep that in mind, hmm?" And then with another light slap of her palm against his cheek, this time more to lightly chastise than to sharply reprimand, she glanced above and behind him to Evan and gave a slight nod.

When the large man forced him into motion then there was nothing Miguel could do about it, no way to twist or buck free of the hold those strong hands had on him. Instead all he could do was try to keep his feet under him and struggle as little as possible, despite his instincts screaming at him to do otherwise. Because he didn't doubt Evan would break his arm, likely effortlessly, and then he would be that much closer to powerless. And that was something he couldn't bear to think about. He was already much too close as it was, and as Evan forced him through a doorway to a room branching off from the main factory space he realised, with a sinking sense of dread and alarm, that he was even more dangerously close to it than he had first realised.

He needed help. And _fast_.


	24. Complexities

Jim hated sitting still. Or sitting on his hands. Inaction and ineffectiveness were more frustrating to him than just about anything else and he couldn't help the way his leg was bouncing constantly as he sat manning the Communications station. There were no reports coming in, no signals to trace or track, and it felt like all he was doing was occupying an otherwise empty seat, staring at a screen, and accomplishing absolutely nothing in the process.

How long would it take Lucas to find what they needed to get underway and get something _done_? It would take as long as it took, he knew, and there was no way around that, especially when Lucas was the only one on board with the smarts and resourcefulness required for the job that he was performing, but that didn't make it any easier for Jim to take. Sitting still. Doing nothing.

One of their own was out there somewhere, God only knew where, facing God only knew what, _alone_. He needed backup, he needed their help, and sooner rather than later.

The fact that he had failed to catch up to Miguel and stop him himself was still gnawing at the back of Jim's mind but after hearing Dagwood's story about the Sensor Chief practically _begging_ the GELF to let him leave he had to wonder: what would he have done? Would he have been able to do what Dagwood had done? If Miguel had looked him in the eyes and pleaded with him to be allowed to leave, would he have been able to find it in himself to do it? Just let him go like that?

Jim sighed.

No. He didn't think he would have. He would have held on tightly and insisted to Miguel that they could help him, and it was entirely possible that in doing so he would have made things that much worse in the process. Who knows what that crazy psychic would have done to Miguel if he hadn't been able to get off the _seaQuest_?

Could she have killed him? Flicked some kind of mental switch and shut everything down in order to protect herself?

Jim closed his hand around his leg, just above the knee, to stop it from bouncing.

Yes. Probably. From what little he knew of the woman she sounded not only capable of doing something like that, but perfectly willing as well.

"Lieutenant?"

Turning his head he saw Captain Bridger looking at him, a frown furrowing his brow and narrowing his eyes slightly.

"Everything all right?"

Jim gave the beginnings of a nod that he really didn't feel and then fought back another sigh. "I've never been good at the whole waiting game thing, sir," he admitted, the undercurrent of frustration in his voice edged with an apology that he hadn't realised he felt he needed to make.

"I don't think anyone's enjoying that right now," Bridger returned, his own tone understanding. "But until we have something to go on—"

"We're flying blind," Jim interjected, nodding his head with more conviction then. "I know, sir." For a moment he worked his jaw, turning the whole situation over in his head until he couldn't hold his tongue any longer, saying, "What happens when we catch up to them?" Perhaps this was a discussion best saved for a more private setting, like the Captain's ready room, or the ward room, but would it really be so bad if they had more than just the bare minimum of minds to work on this problem? What harm could it do at this rate to have more people weighing in on the whole mess? "If this woman really has used this mind control thing on Ortiz then what do we do about that once we track them down?" He glanced over to the attack board, where Ford was watching him with a serious sort of interest, his frown betraying the fact that he was deep in thought. "I'm guessing it's not going to be as easy as flicking some kind of off switch."

Ford made a low sound, like a _hm_, curt and unimpressed. "And there's every chance she'll take full advantage of it if we _do_ track them down."

Bridger glanced at the Commander. "When, Jonathan."

"When, sir." Ford nodded, conceding. "_When_ we track them down."

With a sigh of his own the Captain sat back in his seat a little, one hand lifting to his mouth and playing there lightly, his elbow propped on the arm of his chair. "I don't see why she wouldn't utilise something like that," he said after a while spent considering the issue. He sat forward in his seat again. "And that presents another problem in and of itself."

"We'd have to fight one of our own," Jim provided, though he knew it really wasn't necessary for him to do so. They were all on the same page.

"And we'd have to try and do it without hurting him," Ford added, brows lifted almost sceptically as he glanced to the Captain. "I'm not even sure that's possible, sir."

"Doctor Smith might have something we can use." Bridger glanced between them. He didn't sound convinced of the words he had just spoken, obviously waiting for objections or arguments from his most senior officers.

"Like a sedative?" Jonathan didn't sound convinced. "That's always a risky play. You usually only get one or two shots, and this psychic? She'd see that coming a mile away."

Jim couldn't help the irritation in his voice when he said, "Literally."

"That doesn't leave us much in the way of options." Bridger looked at Jim specifically then. "Ortiz is one of your core ground combat team members," he said. "How would you rank him as a hand-to-hand combatant?"

Jim's instinct was to smirk and say he could handle it, no problem, but this wasn't the time. The stakes were too high for any displays of ego or arrogance, no matter how light-hearted they might be. "Honestly, sir?" He gave a small shake of his head and looked across the central command hub to Jonathan. "There's a reason Miguel's one of the core members." He glanced back up at Bridger. "He's not especially fast, but he's strong. And he knows what he's doing." In part because Jim himself had made sure of that, but the man in question had already had a decent foundation to build on going in. Jim remembered being relieved that they wouldn't be starting from the ground up, just as he remembered being impressed by the physical strength the Sensor Chief possessed.

"Could _you_ take him?" That came from Ford, and without a single trace of provocation. His expression was serious, just like his voice.

He thought about it. "It's possible." He looked from Captain to Commander. "If I could get the drop on him and get the upper hand early on?" As he had in Lucas' room, something he doubted either other man had forgotten. He nodded, but only briefly, before saying again, "It's possible." At Bridger's questioning look he went on, "I'm faster, but—" as loath as he was to admit it, "—Ortiz has got more power." He tipped his head a little. "It wouldn't be a sure thing either way, sir." His ego had been set well and truly aside. Now was the time for honesty, blunt and clear. That would help them more going forward than any arrogant assurances that he might not be able to back up later.

"Well," Bridger said, but it was more sighed than anything. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

Jim _was_ hoping it wouldn't come to that, but if it did? He would do everything in his power to take the other man down and _keep_ him that way. All things considered he suspected Miguel would thank him for it in the long run, especially if it kept him from hurting anyone else while under that woman's control.

* * *

His jaw was aching. Not just aching, actually, but _throbbing_. If he didn't know any better he might have thought there was some kind of hairline fracture along the bone somewhere, the pain was that fierce, that constant, that persistent. It was enough to make his eyes water, a stinging burn that came and went in waves. Just when he thought the worst of it had passed it would sweep up again and he would have to hold his breath and squeeze his eyes shut against the worst of it until it eased. It was a struggle not to bite down on the thickly twisted cloth that had been forced between his teeth in order to try and combat the pain. He had already made that mistake once. He was in no rush to make it again.

With no way of knowing just how long he had been in this room, what had obviously once been an office of some sort judging by the size of it and the fact that there was still an old cork board on the wall with three pins left sticking out of it in random places and obvious fading where old notices had hung for years, it was all too easy for him to lose track of time. It could have been as little as a half hour since Evan had brought him in here, or it could have been as much as hours. There might have been a clock on that wall at one point but it was long gone, along with just about everything else.

Miguel tried to shift in his seat, hoping to make himself less uncomfortable, but the sharp burn around his wrists at the slightest movement pulled him up short. The rope Evan had used to bind him to the chair was rough and chafing, already threatening to rub his wrists raw after only a short time spent struggling against it, but they obviously weren't worried about leaving marks anymore. Their secret was out, _seaQuest_ at the very least knew of Irina's existence and her capabilities, and that she had used one of their own against them. That thought, that _fact_, cold and hard and indisputable, still left a distinctly sour taste in his mouth.

It wouldn't be long before Captain Bridger had no choice but to pass that knowledge along to the UEO as a whole and his career, his _life_ as he had known it, would be over.

That grim prospect unsettled and actually _upset_ him more than he had thought it would. The idea of losing everything he had ever known and being forcibly torn away from the life he had spent years working on building from the ground up filled him with a sense of dread and grief that he was ill prepared to face, let alone deal with. It was taking a good deal of what strength was left to him to keep himself any kind of composed, knowing beneath that anxiety and alarm that he had to hold himself together.

The crew of the _seaQuest_ would do everything in their power to find him, _somehow_, and they would need him to hold on. They would need him to keep himself from falling apart long enough for them to get here and bring all of this crashing down around Irina's ears. Evan's as well, hopefully.

"I love a man with optimism."

The voice came from the door, which had been locked since Evan had left him alone, and Miguel wasn't surprised in the least to see Irina standing there. She was leaning in the doorway, the door itself swung open all the way, her pale eyes watching him calmly and keenly. With a slight cant of her head and an upward quirk of her brows she went on, "I don't have much time for it myself, but it's a good quality in a man." She smiled. "An attractive one, on the _right_ man."

He tried to keep himself from feeling the revulsion and indignation that swept up in the immediate wake of her words but there was no use. It surged up and sat heavily in the pit of his stomach, a miserable weight that was almost powerful enough to make him grimace. He just managed to avoid giving in to that impulse. It wouldn't be worth the pain in his jaw.

With a theatrical sigh she rocked her weight away from the doorframe and sauntered into the room, approaching him at an almost leisurely pace without losing any of her cool confidence in the process. "Even after all of this," she said, "you're _still_ resisting." Irina shook her head. "You would think given the alternative—" at that she looked him up and down, "—it wouldn't be such a terrible thing to consider."

Miguel didn't have to ask what she meant. He knew very well what she meant, and he didn't try to hide how it made him feel to consider it for so much as a second: it made his skin crawl, his stomach roll, and every fibre of his being was repulsed by the mere suggestion of not only getting close to her but being any kind of intimate with her.

Another theatrical sigh, and then a whisper of a laugh as she came to stand in front of him. Miguel kept his eyes forward, his gaze fixed somewhere around her abdomen, but he wasn't really looking at her. He was very pointedly _not_ looking at her, in fact, and doing his best to imitate the stoic kind of severity that Jonathan Ford always managed so well, and seemingly at the drop of a hat.

Irina clucked her tongue, disapproving, and touched her hand to his face. Miguel jerked his head away, rewarded instantly with a burning flash of pain through the stricken side of his face, the entirety of his jaw on that side feeling as though it were aflame. Fresh tears stung his eyes immediately and the pain was actually enough to make his breath catch in his chest. A tight, strangled groan knotted in the back of his throat.

He didn't so much hear her sigh as he sensed it, somehow, he didn't know how, feeling her fingers play lightly through his hair as he fought through the worst of the pain, his eyes still squeezed shut.

God, he _hated_ her.

"That's a _choice_, Miguel." Her voice was surprisingly patient, the words spoken as if by someone with all the time in the world and not a single problem with which to concern themselves. "Like everything else, it's a choice that you make, perhaps not consciously but it _is_ possible to change it. Make a different choice. It's not too late." And it was at that point that she took it upon herself to sit down, but the only chair in the room was the one to which he had been bound. She easily straddled him, settling herself in his lap, taking her time with it, her movements decisive and steady.

Miguel groaned again, his hands balling into tight fists at his back, that rough rope biting into the skin of his wrists that much more sharply.

"The pain you're feeling right now, for example," she said, her voice lowered now that the distance between them was so small. "That's a choice." Her hand touched under his chin and she used that contact to turn his head towards her. Waiting until he had opened his eyes, still stinging as they were, she said, "You can choose to end it." It was only then, as she lifted it into his view, that he noticed Irina was holding something: a mug.

He couldn't tell what it was, what it might contain, but he didn't want to find out. And even if it wasn't tainted somehow, even if there wasn't some kind of trick or trap to it, he didn't want to accept _anything_ from her.

Her voice was different then, still confident but there was something almost like _regret_ there. "If you think I enjoy seeing you like this, Miguel, you're wrong." That brought his gaze back to her face, his eyes meeting hers cautiously, and he looked for any traces of that smug self-assurance, or keen, almost catlike delight, both of which he had come to associate with her.

But there was none of that.

She used his hesitation, his surprise at the sincerity on her face, to raise her free hand again, using it to pull the gag down out of his mouth. It caused just enough movement to make his jaw burn sharply again and he had to fight not to flinch. There was no keeping himself from wincing though, despite his best efforts. She let the gag fall around his neck, still holding his gaze as he took the opportunity to pull in a deeper breath between his parted lips, using it to try and anchor himself. That sour, coppery taste was still heavy on his tongue, and his throat felt dry, almost sandpapery. Irina must have known that. That was why she had brought the mug.

For a moment she said nothing, simply holding his gaze. And then she said, "That's _part_ of it, yes." Her eyes left his then, drifting a little downward and to the side. When they came back up she went on, "As I said, the pain is a choice." She turned the mug a little in her hand, having settled it easily in her palm, her fingers and thumb curled around the edge of the base and up the sides. "As is _trust_."

Trust.

He almost laughed.

It was such an absurd thing to have come out of her mouth, such an outlandish subject for her to even so much as touch upon, and part of him wanted to give in to that laughter despite knowing that it would hurt.

But this wasn't funny. Not even a little.

How did she expect him to trust her? She who had latched on to him like some kind of parasite and used him like some kind of _thing_. An object, a tool, something with no free will of its own. Irina wanted him to trust her but she was the last person he would have trusted. She had to know that. Even without telepathy she had to have known that.

She drew in a breath. "True," she conceded, shifting her weight just a little on his lap and making him wince again. She didn't apologise. "It's a lot to ask, but answer me this, handsome: is it really worth denying yourself even a little relief, just to spite me?" She lifted the mug a fraction higher. "And if I _am_ lying to you?" She tipped her head to the side, a sort of shrug that never touched her shoulders. "Well, at this point, what do you have to lose?"

Damn her. Damn her for getting her claws into him and dragging him down with her. Damn her for twisting the knife. Damn her for her ambitions and greed and dangerous indifference. But most of all, damn her for being right.

The pain in his jaw was almost nauseating, and it was creeping down the side of his neck now. There was a steady pulse of it through his skull already which would have been more than enough to contend with before that devastating hammer-like blow from Evan.

He wasn't Jonathan Ford, even if he had been doing what he thought was a halfway decent job of imitating him. He couldn't just grit his teeth and ignore it.

It was _pain_, and it was sharp and hot and incessant, and he wanted it to stop.

Irina drew in a breath, lifting her head and dipping it slightly in a nod. Instead of making any sort of triumphant remark or rubbing salt in the wound that was his helplessness at that moment, she simply raised the mug to his lips and tilted it just enough for him to get some of the liquid inside.

As soon as he had that first taste his body wanted more, practically _demanded_ more, and he realised he didn't know how long it had been since he had drunk anything. He was desperately thirsty, something which was no doubt contributing more than a little to the droning ache through his skull. As he drank whatever was in the mug more eagerly, with greater need, Irina put her free hand to the back of his head as if she needed to support it. "Easy, slowly," she said quietly, even as she tipped the cup upward as the level of the liquid continued to drop.

Even when the contents were all gone and there was nothing more to drink Miguel wanted more but he managed to pull back and compose himself, his breathing a little heavier after what felt like very real exertion. It shouldn't have been tiring, of course, but he felt as though he had done something much more physically taxing than drink a mugful of—he still didn't know what it had been, but it was too late now and he couldn't bring himself to care. He should have, he knew, but he just didn't have it in him at that moment.

"There," Irina said, glancing into the now-empty mug before bending down enough to let it drop to the ground, making a hollow _thunk_ of a sound as it hit. "That should help." She straightened again, meeting his eyes when he turned them to her face. Whether because she could sense some lingering traces of suspicion in his mind or because of something in his expression he didn't know, but she went on to say, "It was just a painkiller." Her gaze shifted that little bit again and Miguel realised then that she was looking at what had to be a darkening bruise across his jaw from where he had been struck. Her hand reached up and just lightly, just for a moment, she touched the skin there. "You really shouldn't antagonise him." Irina lowered her hand and looked him in the eye. "We can make this work, Miguel," she went on, "but we all have to do our part."

She actually sounded as though she believed that, as if she thought that he was being difficult just for the sake of it, not because his freedom, his free _will_, had been ripped away from him.

"It doesn't _have_ to be that way." Her voice had lowered again, becoming almost conspiratorial, hushed like she was imparting some great secret. "Not if you make the right choices."

Or the wrong ones. That was what they seemed like to Miguel, what they sounded and _felt_ like.

But Irina obviously didn't see it how he did, and never would. Her way was set, she had made her choices and was determined to stick by them no matter what. Despite that, and despite everything that she had said and done and threatened to do if he didn't cooperate with her, Miguel couldn't help but wonder if it _wasn't_ too late for _her_.

She had said so herself: everything was a choice.

Irina was watching him intently, so much so that it seemed as though she was looking right into him, when he brought his gaze back to hers. There was the slightest knitting of her brown, the subtlest signs of a frown, but as discreet as the expression was there was a lot behind it. Miguel thought she seemed pensive, but perhaps even a little troubled.

_Saddened_, even.

Closing his eyes and fighting the urge to give his head a sharp shake, he forced those thoughts out of his mind. Whatever she had put in that mug had to be muddying his thoughts and making everything foggy and slippery. That was the only explanation for it.

She watched him for a few moments longer before drawing in a breath. "If I leave this down," she said, pausing long enough to touch her hand to the twisted length of cloth she had left hanging around his neck, "do you promise not to make me regret it?"

Miguel actually thought about it, using what he could access of his professional and problem-solving mind-set to quickly weigh the pros and the cons of the responses he could give. It didn't take him long. Despite the lingering desire to make her life as difficult as possible he couldn't deny how much better he would feel if he agreed, if he didn't have that thick twist of cloth forced back into his mouth. It wouldn't be to appease _her_, but to spare himself further discomfort. Selfish, perhaps, but sensible.

So he nodded. It required swallowing what little pride he had left to him at that point but he made sure that there was no mistaking the motion for anything else.

Irina seemed pleased, giving him a slow and steady smile, but there was little of that undercurrent of predatory anticipation in the expression. What little there was though, it was still enough to chase a chill up the length of his spine and have him averting his gaze, as if that would make her lose interest in him when he knew nothing could have been further from the truth.

Lingering for a moment longer, Irina took the opportunity to touch her hand first to the unbruised side of his jaw, and then higher up, on his face. It was a fleeting touch, not long enough for him to react to even if he had got it in his head to do so, and by the time he even really considered it she was scooping the empty mug from the ground and rising from his lap. Without a word she turned and moved to the door, not even so much as glancing back over her shoulder before she stepped through and closed it behind her.

As the lock clicked home Miguel felt a chill beginning to spread in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't whatever had been in that mug, he knew, whatever painkiller she had seen fit to dose him with, but something else entirely. It felt like dread but it was more than that, greater than that. Much more complicated.

Miguel didn't know _what_ it was, exactly. He only knew that it frightened him.


	25. Puzzle Pieces

Well aware as he was that Tony was almost literally hovering over him as he worked, Lucas didn't pause for so much as a second as he burrowed, ducked, and wove his way around firewalls and digital security blockades, one after the other. There was a drink beside him, very likely put there by his roommate, but Lucas hadn't even paused long enough to take so much as a single swig of it. He thought there might have been something edible as well but he didn't even spare a glance to confirm that either way.

He didn't have time for anything like that. He didn't have time for anything but the task right in front of him, actually, and considering the stakes of the situation they had all found themselves in he didn't think anyone would disagree with him on that front.

"You've been at this for hours," Tony commented, almost absently, from his place behind where Lucas was seated, typing away at the keyboard and keeping his eyes glued to his screen as data and coding flitted past at an almost dizzying speed. "How long's it gonna take?"

"It takes as long as it takes, Tony." Lucas didn't pause as he answered, and he didn't even really think about the words that came out of his mouth as he spoke them. For all intents and purposes he was running on autopilot, laser focused on the job ahead of him. "I thought you were helping run diagnostics up on the bridge."

"I was," Tony shot back. "I _am_." There was something almost like disappointment in the other man's voice when he said, "Nobody's found nothin', at least not last that I knew." He paused for a moment. "I gotta get back up there any second now. I thought maybe I'd take word to the Cap'n that you were all done here."

Lucas gave a low sound of acknowledgement. Even though he had heard what his roommate had said he hadn't really been taking it in beyond the basics. The Captain still wasn't sure there weren't any other major corruptions in the _seaQuest_'s main systems and that was somewhat troubling, but they were still looking. They weren't giving up or taking anything for granted. That was reassuring. That sounded like business as usual, despite the circumstances they were dealing with.

"It takes as long as it takes, Tony," Lucas repeated, without any additional specific emphasis or weight of any kind, hoping that his roommate would get the message and keep from dropping any more hints or just flat out asking the question again.

It was quiet behind him for a minute or so, he wasn't sure how long exactly, and then the other man let out a huff that he thought might have been a sigh. "Okay, fine. I don't get why this stuff takes so long though, I thought computers were supposed to make everythin' easier or somethin'."

"Mr. Piccolo," came a voice from the PAL attached to Tony's belt.

The Seaman gave a frustrated sound, muttering to himself, and then unclipped the device to answer the call. "Piccolo here, sir."

It was Commander Ford on the other end of the line. "We were expecting you back up on the bridge five minutes ago."

"Aw, crap." Tony caught himself, but too late. "Sorry, sir. I'll be right up, Commander."

"See that you are, Mr. Piccolo. We still have work to do." That was, it seemed, the end of the conversation. Tony's PAL fell silent.

Lucas had continued to work the entire time, not looking up or back even once. He did, however, give a shadow of a smile at his roommate's small stumble.

"Shut up," Tony grumbled, even though Lucas strongly suspected that the other man couldn't possibly have seen that smile from where he had been standing. Without another word, and thankfully without asking the question one last time, Tony made his way up the few steps leading out of their quarters and carried right on through the door, leaving Lucas in blissful solitude and silence so he could well and truly lose himself in his task.

* * *

Stupid kid.

Stupid _smart_ kid.

Tony had been keeping time perfectly until he'd stopped by to check how Luke had been doing with the whole hacking thing, the job that only he could perform because no one else on this boat was capable of understanding all of that crazy computer stuff as well as he did. Tony guessed plenty of other people on board could do plenty of things with it, and Ortiz had shown through all of this mess that he was more than capable when it came to the submarine's systems and whatever else he had tampered with, but the kid had a specific skillset, one that Captain Bridger was making full use of in this current situation.

Good thing, too, he knew, beyond the slight sting of his indignation in the wake of the sharp reprimand from Commander Ford. If they didn't have someone like Wolenczak on board there was no telling where they would be able to go from here. Nowhere, probably. And that was nothing against the rest of the crew. It was just a fact, hard and cold and indisputable. They couldn't escape it.

No less than five minutes after he left his and Lucas' room he was passing through the clamshell doors, saying as he did so, loudly enough that the right people would hear it, "Sorry, sir. Won't happen again." Even as he said that he didn't stop, instead continuing on his way onto the bridge proper and then up onto the starboard platform. He didn't stop until he reached the sensor station, dropping himself into the seat and quickly donning the headset that had been set on the console.

"We'll be holding you to that, Mr. Piccolo." Captain Bridger was looking up at him as Tony glanced down, and he thought he felt a slight rush of heat into his cheeks, but instead of giving it another thought he put his head down and got back to work.

It hadn't taken him long to get the hang of the whole diagnostics process and after watching it run through a couple of times he had wanted to take a crack at it himself. With only a couple of minor mistakes he ran the process from start to finish and after that initial, somewhat stumbling attempt, he had felt confident enough that he could continue on without supervision. He was a quick learner, at least when it came to things he _wanted_ to learn, and as was the case with most things aboard the _seaQuest_ this process fell into that category.

For all his complaints about being stuck on this tug, as he semi-affectionately called it in his sourest moments, he knew he had gotten _extremely_ lucky when he had been placed under Captain Bridger. Considering the alternatives this placement was not just the best he could have hoped for but _better_ than anything he could have imagined. Far better, in fact.

On the screen in front of him the system showed that it was initiating the diagnostic process, running through God only knew how many different levels of coding or whatever it was that made up the computers of the _seaQuest_. Tony had never claimed to be any sort of expert with things like that, the sorts of things that Luke could understand in the blink of an eye or figure out in about five minutes. Tony didn't claim to know anything beyond the basics to get by, though since coming aboard the submarine he had learned a heck of a lot, a lot more than he ever would have thought he would know. Now he could watch a screen like the one in front of him and just about understand what it was doing, and not just because he had been told what the end result would be.

Unfortunately that didn't make the waiting part any more interesting. It was a struggle not to prop his elbow on the edge of the workstation and rest his chin in his hand, and he distracted himself from the urge by taking lengthy looks at what the WSKRS were up to. They were part of the diagnostic as well, naturally, but they were still functioning while they were being analysed from within and their readings gave him something to look at, if nothing else.

Mother was scanning her way through an almost unbelievably large shoal of bright silver fish that flashed brilliantly as they darted through the water, while Junior was conducting an analysis of his own, specifically of the water in which they were currently sailing and the breakdown of bacteria and other microscopic lifeforms that populated it.

Loner should have been studying a rocky outcropping about a hundred metres off to port, closer to the stern than the bow, but when Tony really looked at the readouts he noticed that they were inconsistent. And it wasn't that there was anything strange about those rocks either. The readings had _gaps_ in them. It was like Loner was completely overlooking parts of the rocks, half-assing a job that he should have been committing to completely and without a second thought.

A second thought? Tony shook his head. If he was starting to think of the WSKRS like living creatures with minds of their own then maybe he had been working the sensors station too much. Or maybe he had been spending too much time around Ortiz.

But there was definitely something _off_ about what he was seeing. "Uhh—" His frown deepened even more as Loner's readings dropped out altogether, becoming little more than static and white noise, before jumping back in. He guessed that explained the gaps in the readings. "Sir?" He would let the senior officers decide which one of them he was addressing specifically. So long as he got someone's attention he didn't much care whose it was.

"Mr. Piccolo?" Captain Bridger was looking his way, and Commander Ford and Lieutenant Brody followed suit. The latter looked glad for the distraction. "Do you have something for us?"

"Uh, _maybe_, sir," he said, sounding uncertain because if he was honest he couldn't be sure about something with which he had absolutely zero experience. "I'm not sure _what_ I've got."

"Well," the Captain said, "don't be shy, Seaman. Share with the class." He nodded at the viewer, an obvious cue for what he wanted Tony to do next.

He didn't disappoint, hitting the keys and flicking the switches that would achieve what the Captain was expecting. He almost sent the wrong readout to the main screen but caught himself at the last moment, and within a few moments Loner's erratic and increasingly nonsensical readings were up at the front of the bridge for all to see. Even to Tony, who had already seen them on a smaller scale, they looked even more conspicuous and just plain _wrong_ now that they were magnified like that.

"What on earth?" Commander Ford had leaned forward in his seat. "Is this the only WSKR malfunctioning?"

Tony checked the network for the devices and flicked between the readings for all units currently running, letting the system diagnostic analyse those that were currently dormant inside _seaQuest_ itself. "Yes, sir. Looks that way."

"Has the diagnostic finished running on sensors?" Captain Bridger asked.

Another check. "Not yet, sir. It's gettin' there but it's not quite done." Raising his eyebrows a little he said, "I just noticed Loner actin' all whacky and figured I should say somethin'."

"You figured right, Mr. Piccolo," Bridger said, rising from his seat and moving closer to the main viewer. Almost as if on cue Loner's readings glitched, practically jerking at a diagonal across the screen, before dropping out completely. After several moments they came back, but now several of his primary systems seemed like they were refusing to reboot.

It was just as the Captain was making a beeline for the platform and the sensors station in particular that the computer in front of him alerted him to the fact that the diagnostic program had finished running. Just as Bridger joined him Tony reported, "There's _definitely_ somethin' up with him, sir." He looked up to the Captain, noticing that the older man wasn't in the least bit fazed by the terminology he used to describe the WSKR. That figured. The Captain had known Ortiz for a while now, and Miguel always talked about the WSKRS the way that Tony himself just had.

Captain Bridger leaned in and scanned the data for the results, even as Tony took a look through the rest of the notifications. "Everything else is clean, sir. The only problem we got with sensors is Loner and—" He waved a hand at the WSKR's readings. They spoke for themselves, he thought.

The Captain obviously agreed, raising his voice enough for everyone on the bridge to hear when he said, "Bring that WSKR aboard, Mr. Piccolo. I want a team to figure out what exactly is causing it to malfunction, and how."

Tony gave a firm nod. "Yes, sir." No sooner had the words left his mouth than he was entering the commands for WSKR recall, hoping that Loner was functioning enough to understand and accept it and that they wouldn't have to head out there in a sea crab and retrieve him that way.

"Didn't Ortiz say something about Loner giving him trouble?" Commander Ford asked, brow furrowed in a frown.

"Yes, he did," the Captain returned, making his way down from the platform. "And he had it raised up on sea deck for a while. Henderson." He turned towards her at her station on the port platform. "Did you find out what exactly he was doing to that WSKR when you assisted him?"

She hesitated, her mouth open as if to respond impulsively before she thought better of it. Closing her mouth she shook her head after several moments. "No, sir. I didn't." She looked slightly sheepish. "I didn't get involved in whatever he was doing, I just helped however I thought I could."

With a flicker of relief as Loner gave an affirmative to the recall command and started making his way back to _seaQuest_ Tony thought it would be a safe bet that Ortiz had intentionally done something to the WSKR. The question was, what exactly had he done? And _why_?

* * *

It didn't take long to figure out the what. Or the why.

Lonnie watched in slack-jawed horror and disbelief as Commander Ford and Lieutenant Brody retrieved the concealed item from the guts of the WSKR that had been raised up, still dripping water generously into the moon pool below, bringing it out into the light and therefore the plain view of everyone present. As she managed to break her gaze from what had been found and looked around at those gathered she saw her own expression, the disquiet and the grim sense of reluctant understanding, mirrored on their faces.

Because it made an awful kind of sense, what they had found, and where. Lonnie almost couldn't believe that she hadn't thought of it before. She had been here when it had been hidden, when it was being concealed and tucked away out of sight and out of mind, before it was sent back out into the waters surrounding the _seaQuest_. Miguel had to have known that it would be discovered, that Loner would start to malfunction at one point or another.

Was that why he had hidden it where he had? _Because_ it would be found?

Lonnie folded her arms across her chest, telling herself that that didn't make any sense. What did it matter whether or not it was found? Tim had been found, and they had known what had been used in the attack, what had been stolen from the galley. She understood, as much as she didn't want to, the impulse to hide it after the act, but she still couldn't reconcile that action with the man responsible for it.

She looked at the knife again, held in Jim's hand and reflecting just enough light for her to see that most of the blood had been wiped away but not quite all of it. There was still just enough of a trace that she could see it. She didn't want to see it. So she blinked her eyes, rapidly, against the sting of tears that had sprung up unexpectedly, turning her gaze away. It was too horrible to think of one person she cared for deeply doing that to another, too awful to imagine Miguel doing that to _Tim_. They were close, best friends, they had served together for years, even before Captain Bridger had assumed command. She didn't want to picture it but she found that she couldn't stop. Now that she had started she just couldn't stop.

Annoyed at herself, frustrated by the show of too much emotion in the wrong place at the wrong time, she swept her hand first under one eye and then the other.

Before she even realised she had company a gentle hand was touching the back of her shoulder, rubbing lightly from one side to the other. Lonnie wasn't surprised to see that it was Wendy standing there when she composed herself enough to look, giving the other woman a small, fleeting smile that she knew wasn't in the least bit convincing. "I'm okay," she lied, knowing that it was foolish to try but finding herself unable to do anything else. There really wasn't time to be anything _other_ than okay, and she needed to hold herself together and do her job. She was a sailor now, she was serving on the UEO's flagship. She needed to stop letting her emotions get the better of her.

"I know how you feel," Wendy said, and then gave an apologetic smile for the accidental double meaning of her words. Dipping her gaze for a moment she then turned it to regard the two men who had opened the WSKR and retrieved the knife from its interior. "It's hard to think of any one of us doing that, psychically influenced or not." She turned her attention back to Lonnie. "But it's important to remember that he _was_ influenced. Heavily."

Lonnie nodded, a little too hard. She was trying to convince herself as much as anyone else when she said, "I know." Taking in a deep breath she gathered herself enough to meet the other woman's eyes. "It's just—" The words knotted themselves into great tangles in her mind, forcing her to take a few moments to organise them to a point where she could finish her train of thought. "I was with him when he did this." She nodded at Loner, suspended from the rig. The dripping had slowed but not yet stopped. "And I didn't even suspect anything was wrong." She frowned, though perhaps it was more a grimace than anything else. "Not like _this_, anyway." She looked to Wendy again. "I just thought he was upset about what had happened to Tim."

Wendy raised her brows, saying softly, "He _was_."

Lonnie frowned, a wave of melancholy sweeping through her. Of course Miguel had been upset, even if it wasn't in the way that she had assumed. She tried to imagine how she would have felt in his position, forced into doing something so horrible, and to someone she cared about as much as Miguel cared about Tim. Her stomach lurched and she had to close her eyes, holding her breath to keep the swell of nausea from rising any higher and taking too much of a hold on her. Not the time. Not the place.

"I know," Wendy said quietly, moving her hand across Lonnie's upper back once again. She didn't say anything more than that. She didn't need to.

* * *

"So how does this change things?"

Nathan looked down at Jonathan and sighed. "It doesn't." At the other man's disapproving expression he went on, "Not really. We knew that a knife had been used in Lieutenant O'Neill's attack, and that that knife had been stolen from the galley." Glancing to another seat where Lieutenant Brody had seen fit to settle himself, albeit rocked forward with his elbows on his knees, he concluded, "But that does solve two small mysteries we had ongoing."

"What was wrong with Loner, and the location of the knife." The Lieutenant didn't sound happy with the resolution to those small problems. They had been little more than fleeting blips on the radar compared to the real issue they were facing.

"Precisely." Nathan paced around his ready room for a short while, letting his mind run, before he took it upon himself to prop his weight against the edge of the desk. It gave him a good view of the other two men in the room, as well as the door. "Unfortunately it doesn't really help us find this Dvornikov woman."

"Or Miguel," Brody added.

"Well," Nathan said, "if we find one we'll surely find the other as well. Not that _that_ knowledge helps us either, at least not until Lucas has some kind of luck with what he's doing." Hacking, he knew, but such words always felt a little strange in his mouth, like some sort of foreign language he was never really going to be comfortable speaking. "What we _can_ do is figure out just what we're going to do when we _do_ get a location."

"If we get one," Jonathan said quietly, not quite under his breath but near enough that Nathan couldn't help but wonder if he was supposed to have heard it at all. The Commander looked between them and added, "We have to face the possibility that there might not be anything for Lucas to find." With a shake of his head he went on, "It's not anything that anybody wants to think about, I know, but we have to be realistic."

"There's a different between being realistic and giving up." Brody was looking right at Jonathan as he said that and Nathan sensed what might happen if he didn't interject. The two men were just as likely to butt heads, and intensely, as they were to put their heads together and combine their skills and intelligence to come to a solution.

"Nobody's giving up," he said, satisfied when both other men looked his way and said nothing more to one another that could have been any sort of continuation of the near-argument. Maybe one day they would stop locking horns and goading one another but Nathan couldn't see that happening any time soon. And who knew? Maybe that was beneficial to both of them, pushing them to be better than their accepted best, even if it was in the hopes of outdoing one another. "We don't give up," he continued, "and we don't leave any man behind."

That got a firm nod out of each of the officers and Nathan allowed himself to feel satisfied with that. They were in agreement on that much, at least.

"So," he began again, "how about we come up with a plan for how we can proceed?"

"Yes, sir." Brody gave another nod and started to lay out ideas that he had clearly already been turning over in his head, tactics and strategies for several contingencies depending entirely on what they found when they had a location to work with. Nathan listened to the younger men as they discussed mostly among themselves the best way to go about tackling an enemy who would foresee any move they tried to make. Every now and then he added a suggestion of his own, based entirely on his own experiences with psychics as well as more traditional operations in his military past.

They had made good progress by the time the sound of running feet reached them, moments before there was a dull metallic clang at the door and it swung open to reveal a very obviously animated Lucas standing there. He didn't apologise for the intrusion or the interruption, or for entering unannounced. Instead he said, his voice clear and satisfied, "I've got it, Captain." A very real smile swept across his face then and he said, by way of needless clarification, "I've got the frequency."


	26. Choices

One of the distinct advantages, Wendy had learned, of being a telepath, was that any time she had a shortfall of understanding she could use the expert's knowledge in order to better her own. That was most certainly the case as Lucas took it upon himself to explain to them not only how he'd found the frequency but how they could use it to track Ortiz, and hopefully, _find_ him. She had listened conventionally as well, of course, but she used her ability to skim the surface of the teenager's mind in order to gain a better understanding of the whole thing.

She had already been caught unawares more than once recently. There was no way she was going to let it happen again. This woman had already gotten the better of her too many times. It wasn't often at all that any sort of pride played a part in her decisions and motivations but she was sick of this woman making her look like a fool, like some kind of inexperienced child wandering around with no clue whatsoever on how to use the powers that were as much a part of her as her heart or lungs.

"So you can use our sensors to pinpoint this signal," Ford said, not really asking a question so much as stating a fact and waiting for Lucas to either agree or contradict.

"Exactly," the teenager said confidently with a nod of his head that sent his hair bobbing lightly. He opened his mouth as if to explain again but Nathan waved his hand.

"We heard you the first time, Lucas," he said, with patience but also with the finest thread of warning. It wasn't heated, or anything else that the teenager needed to be concerned about, it was more that the Captain was trying to remind the young man that time was of the essence. Explaining the process again would waste some of that precious time and considering they didn't know just how much they had they couldn't afford the risk.

"There's just one problem," Brody said, looking around and then back to Lucas. "What if this Dvornikov woman has removed the device?"

"I don't think she'd do that," Nathan stated plainly. "If it gives her easier control over Ortiz then she has every reason to leave it where it is and continue utilising it."

Lucas gave another certain nod. "That's what I'm thinking." He met Brody's gaze directly all the same. "But if she _has_ removed it then we should still be able to pinpoint where it was last transmitting."

The Lieutenant's brows lifted. "_Should_?"

For a moment Lucas tipped his head one way and then the other before he admitted, "This is all theoretical. This was a prototype and it wasn't all that widely tested. I'm working on the data I was able to mine from Gabrin's systems."

"It's the best we have to work with," Nathan said seriously, "and it's a good lead to follow." He gave Lucas a nod, encouraging and reassuring. The teenager gave a shadow of a smile in return, grateful for the support.

Wendy understood Brody's concerns, in fact she shared them, and she couldn't help but be concerned as well. It would be devastating to have come this far only to fall at the last hurdle, ultimately losing not only one of their own but also a great deal of potentially dangerous and world-changing data. They had to work fast, and with everything at their disposal, in order to stop this woman from putting that knowledge she had stolen to use, or more to the point selling it on to those who would do with it as they pleased, everyone else be damned. There were too many people out there who would do untold amounts of damage with the sorts of things that had been stolen from the _seaQuest_. They could shake the world's economy to its core, destabilise all that the UEO had worked for years to establish and enforce.

They had to stop Irina Dvornikov. Permanently. Wendy didn't know what that meant for how they would proceed, but a woman with not only her fiercely selfish and frankly _deadly_ ambitions but her sheer psychic power couldn't be permitted to go free. As much as it sickened her to even consider persecuting a fellow psychic Wendy knew that they were leagues apart. Irina had no consideration for others, despite the fact that there was no way she _couldn't_ feel the pain and suffering she caused, and she would do anything and everything in her power to ensure she came out on top. Anyone with such reckless abandon and disregard when it came to the lives and well-being of others had, quite frankly, sacrificed the right to the kinds of freedom she was currently taking advantage of.

"All right, Lucas," Nathan said, with the kind of sure finality that told everyone present that he had come to a decision and it was time for action. "The systems are yours. Get us a heading."

Wendy imagined Lucas might give the Captain a kind of salute but instead he gave a confident nod, saying as he did, "Yes, sir." The salute would probably inadvertently come across as disrespectful, he had decided, a thought that Wendy didn't even have to search for in order to pick up with crystal clarity. She gave him a smile as he passed her on his way out of the ward room to get to work. He would be on the bridge, very likely flitting from one station to another, working furiously in order to get the job done. She couldn't help but admire that quality in him, that desire to make Captain Bridger proud. It was a wonderful thing. Rare in someone so young. Something to treasure.

The rest of the staff filtered out and Wendy watched them go, making ready to do the same before Nathan's voice stopped her. At the sound of her name she turned her head to him and waited, knowing that he would speak his piece whether she invited him to or not. It helped that she usually did want to know what he had to say.

"Are you going to be all right with this?" he asked her, making her frown a little. She could have read his mind to understand him fully but she preferred to give people the freedom to explain themselves in the traditional way. It was much less intrusive. "You've already gone head to head with this woman once." Nathan paused. "Quite literally." She had to give him that one. It had been as literal a head to head confrontation as anyone was likely to find. "I won't ask you to do anything that you're not comfortable with."

"I know," she told him, and she _had_ already known that. He was a good man, always considerate when it came to her sensitivities and vulnerabilities, such as they were. "But who else on board can go up against that power of hers?" Allowing a little of her fear to show, just a fraction of it, she went on, "Even _I'm_ not sure if I can withstand whatever she might throw at me, but—" She took a deep breath. "Even if I can just provide a distraction so that someone else can subdue her, then I want to _try_."

Nathan frowned. "We might not be able to subdue her."

Wendy's nod was slow and accepting. "I know." Despite all that the other woman had done, the idea of doing anything permanent and irrevocable was unsettling to her. And _sad_. "But she has to be stopped," she said, surrendering to the notion with that statement, and letting the man before her know that she would come to terms with it in her own way. "By any means necessary."

Nathan held her gaze for a few moments, almost as if _he_ was trying to read _her_, and then he nodded as well. It was a gentle motion, almost apologetic, before he said with the same air of surrender, "By any means necessary."

* * *

Restless didn't even begin to cover it. Neither did frustrated. In fact, Tim was hard-pressed to remember a time when he had ever felt more of either, and he had to fight to keep from fidgeting in the bed to which he was confined for the foreseeable future. He wanted to get _out_ of this bed. He wanted to _help_.

"I know, Tim." Doctor Smith's voice was understanding but it still bristled his already frayed nerves.

He turned an unhappy look in her direction. "I thought you didn't read minds without permission."

No sooner than the words were out of his mouth he regretted them, even more so when Wendy instantly averted and then dropped her gaze, a hint of shamed colour flushing her cheeks. His own shame wasted no time in rearing its head and taking centre stage in his mind. He sighed, heavily and hurriedly, and shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said, feeling terrible. "I'm just—" Frustrated. She already knew that. But Tim knew that she had probably cut herself off from his mind well and truly after what he had said. That meant having to be articulate enough to explain himself. In a way he had shot himself in the foot. All things considered it would have been much quicker, much simpler, to just let her read his mind. "Miguel is my best friend." That wasn't news to anybody. "He needs our help, he needs _my_ help, and—" Impatiently he gestured at the bed, and himself in it.

Wendy's voice was sympathetic when she said, "You're in no condition to be out of that bed, Tim." With a soft sigh of her own she laid a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry. I know you want to help. We _all_ do."

Tim felt miserable, and then he felt ridiculous for feeling that way. It was a vicious cycle. He was an officer in the UEO Navy and he was behaving not unlike a child. He was suddenly incredibly glad that none of the senior officers were anywhere close by where they could have overheard any part of his petulant little outburst. "I should have said something earlier." He lifted his eyes and looked at Doctor Smith. "Right away, as soon as I realised something was wrong. If I had then none of this would be happening." And he might not be stuck in this bed, recovering from surgery after being _stabbed_.

"We can't change the past," she said, her hand still on his arm. "And I'm sure Miguel knows that you would have done everything in your power to help him."

_Save him_ might have been a more accurate term, Tim thought grimly. That was about as far from comforting or reassuring as anything could be. "I just want to help." He heard the weariness in his own voice, the tired and reluctant resignation to the fact that there was nothing he could do.

There was a minute or so of quiet, something that Tim normally would have found quite enjoyable under any other circumstances but right then it just seemed to draw a line under how useless he would be in the mission to come.

"Maybe there _is_ something you can do," Doctor Smith said then, thoughtfully, and when he lifted his gaze he found hers fixed on him, her eyes slightly narrowed. Her brow was furrowed in consideration.

Tim couldn't help but be intrigued, _hopeful_ even, almost desperately so. The idea of being able to do something, _anything_, even made him sit up in the bed a little straighter. This was an opportunity he didn't plan on wasting and if he could genuinely help somehow? Maybe he could make up for his earlier shortcomings, his failures. More importantly he might be able to play a part in saving his best friend. Whatever it was, Tim wanted to try.

* * *

This was more like it. The knowledge that something was being done, that some kind of action was being taken, it rejuvenated him and successfully lifted him right out of that irritable state of impatience that he had spent the last several hours in. Was it just hours? It felt more like days at that point, the time spent waiting for others better suited to such tasks to figure out how to proceed, where to go next, what needed to be done.

But now that part was over. Finally. Thankfully. _Blissfully_.

Jim had been standing looking over Lucas' shoulder when the teenager had been manipulating the _seaQuest_'s systems in order to get them to do what he needed them to do and for a while he had barely been able to tolerate the tension. The anticipation had been unbearable, and Jim had found himself genuinely wondering if the teenager wasn't somehow doing it on purpose. It didn't fit with his character, he knew that, but part of him still hadn't been able to keep from thinking it.

"Captain." Lucas' voice had been tight with that same anticipation that Jim himself had been feeling and he had looked from the screen to the teenager to the Captain himself as Bridger moved over to the Communications station where the action had come to a head. As soon as the older man had been close enough for him to be able to do so without raising his voice too much Lucas had said, "I've got it." He hadn't been able to keep from beaming, grinning from ear to ear as he leaned back enough for Bridger to lean in and see the results for himself.

"Put that up on the main screen," the Captain had said, his voice restrained, almost as if he didn't quite dare believe what he was being shown. Lucas had wasted no time in doing just what he had been told and the rest of the bridge crew had turned their attention from whatever else they had been doing to look at the screen, and the map it now displayed. In pride of place, not moving from one particular spot not far from the shore on the eastern coast of the United States, was a pulsing marker. "That's it?" Bridger had asked, looking down at Lucas briefly.

The teenager had nodded. "That's the device. It's still active, fully functional as far as I can tell, which means it hasn't been removed."

"Not as far as you can tell." Ford, always the voice of reason and pragmatism, had offered from the attack board.

Lucas hadn't really dignified that scepticism with an answer, saying instead, "From what I've been able to gather the signal hasn't moved for a while, but that could mean anything." He had glanced across at Ford, almost as if he had been daring the older man to say something cynical.

"For now," Bridger had said before the Commander had had a chance, "we have to work on the assumption that it means he's still alive."

"Just not moving," Jim had offered at that point. As Lucas himself had said, it could have meant any number of things. Miguel could have been unconscious, or restrained somehow, or—well, he wasn't going to go _there_. The moment any of them starting considering that grim possibility they would start to lose focus. That was when people made mistakes, and they couldn't afford any of those.

Bridger had issued the command for the helm to set a course for the coast, all ahead full, and then he had turned to Jim and told him to get to work. He knew exactly what that meant and he had wasted no time in making the necessary preparations. Too large a force would lessen their chances of successfully infiltrating the location where the signal was coming from, and as it was they were fully expecting the psychic to anticipate their arrival. It was just a matter of how much time they could get and how far they could advance on the target before she saw that she had company. With any luck she wouldn't be able to see just _what_ they were bringing, how many people and their gear. For all the good that it would do them Jim had told his men, those who would surround the location and establish a perimeter, to keep their minds as clear as possible. It had worked well enough with Clay Marshall, and it was worth trying again in what was to come.

Personally, Jim wasn't going to take any chances. He made one last check of the magazine of the handgun he was going to carry on the mission and then slid it firmly back into the butt of the gun. He felt it click home, a satisfying sound and sensation, and then he racked the slide. A quick motion with his thumb ensured the safety was engaged and then he confidently holstered it at his upper thigh.

It would be a last resort weapon, something to fall back on if things got out of hand, if things got desperate. If there was no other way.

Captain Bridger had said _by any means necessary_. As grim a reality as it was, those were words that Jim had taken to heart.

They, _he_, would do whatever was necessary in order to retrieve one of their own. That woman had made her choices and showed no signs of going back on any of them. They couldn't expect her to go down without one hell of a fight and Jim wanted to be ready for her. Ready for _anything_.

Given what they were up against that was easier said than done, he knew, but that only made him more determined to see this through to the bitter end. _By any means necessary_. Those words kept going around and around in his head, and would continue to do so until this was done, one way or the other, he knew. Jim didn't plan on fighting that. It was a good thing to keep in mind. The best thing, ultimately.

Whatever happened, they had to see this through.

* * *

It was like a prickling in the back of her mind, a quiet buzzing that refused to go away. On and on it droned, little more than background noise, but by this point in her life she knew not to ignore such things. Small signs, the tiniest tips and signals that could tell her so much. In her youth she had ignored them and paid the price but now she was experienced and cunning, always aware and on the lookout for possible dangers and complications.

This one was the former. She could feel it. It had that certain resonance to it, that distinct humming undercurrent of threat and intention. It made her sit forward in her chair. Sit upright. Ramrod straight.

Evan's eyes were on her at once. "Trouble?"

Irina pulled in a breath, tight and tense and irritated. She clenched her jaw, frustrated. "Yes." Damn them. She had been hoping for more time, a bigger window to work with. The opportunity that had landed in her lap was far too good to pass up but she had been intending to take her time with it, utilise deftness and subtly in what she was planning to do.

Now she no longer had that luxury.

If she didn't want that window to slam shut, quite possibly on her fingers if not her whole hand, she had to act now. Hopefully she would be able to compensate for it later, reel it back and rebuild from the ground up if necessary, and that would take even longer than what she had been planning on in the first place. But needs must. Desperate times.

Pushing up from the chair she cast a glance at Evan, not needing to say anything in order for him to follow her as she crossed the floor and unlocked the door to what had once been the manager's office. She felt the trip and catch as the mind within struggled to find its footing, letting her know that the painkillers were doing their job even if it meant he was dulled in more ways than one.

That would work in her favour, luckily. _Their_ favour, ultimately. What came after would be easier to handle because there would be less force required for what she needed to do now. Not considerably less, of course, the painkillers weren't as strong as that, but it was still an unforeseen advantage.

Her irritation pulsed through her veins, carried in her blood with every steady, sure beat of her heart. She _hated_ having her hand forced. Having any kind of control stripped or outright torn away from her was close to maddening and she intended to ensure they realised their mistake and paid for it. Dearly.

Miguel looked from one to the other, figuring out that something was happening a little belatedly but still fairly easily. "They're coming," he said, with a kind of surety that she might have found admirable at any other point but in that moment it was just one more reminder of how much her plans had been shaken, unbalanced, in need of rapid and rough reshaping.

He actually managed a smile, no doubt thanks to the drugs she had given him. It was still a fleeting expression, falling away as he said, "You should run."

"I don't run."

"But you should."

Was he trying to give her an _out_? How very chivalrous. She found herself smiling back at him. On the one hand he was right, they didn't _need_ to stay here and could easily get underway, but if the crew of that damned submarine had figured out some way to track them, and she was sure that they had, then they would continue to do so.

No, she needed to stand her ground. Stand her ground and fight.

"You can't win," Miguel told her, but he wasn't gloating on behalf of his friends, those coming to try and save him. It was a fact, freely offered and plainly stated. "They'll stop you and they'll catch you, and then—" He jerked back in the chair as much as the ropes would allow, an involuntary motion in direct response to Evan's single certain step forward.

Irina had to be quick to catch his arm, not grabbing it but laying a hand on it. His other, she noticed, was already cocked back, ready to strike. She realised she was holding her breath, her gaze broken from Miguel to fix on Evan. If he struck again he could very possibly _shatter_ the other man's jaw, crack his cheekbone or even fracture his eye socket. A particularly savage strike in just the right place could leave a hairline crack in his skull.

She could not allow that.

Miguel was looking up at Evan, a mixture of fear and realisation on his face. Irina felt them swirling inside of him, a small tempest that quickly calmed until one overpowered the other. Realisation. Miguel's voice was completely steady, free of all that fear from only a moment ago, as he said, "You love her."

Another fact. Freely offered. Plainly stated.

For all his strength and indomitability Evan hesitated, wavering. He had responded to her touch immediately, his forward motion freezing at once, leaving him rooted to the spot like some kind of hulking statue. Irina thought she could hear his knuckles creak as he clenched his balled fist even tighter.

She had known, of course. She had known for a while now. How could she not?

_Wait outside_.

Evan blinked, turning his eyes without moving his head to glance at her. Questioning.

She hadn't wanted to say the words aloud, wanting to spare him the possible humiliation, no matter how slight. Irina had wanted him here in case Miguel wanted to fight, kick up his usual kind of fuss, but it had been an unnecessary precaution on her part. When hadn't she been able to control the man before them? And now he was bound to a chair, hurting and exhausted. He was in no position to put up enough of a fight to trouble her.

_Evan_.

He let out a breath through his nose, reminding her for just a second of a riled bull, and then he rocked his weight back, lowering his cocked arm slowly but surely. His eyes had turned back to Miguel and they were slightly narrowed then, giving her just a moment of concern before he let out another huff of a breath and turned away. As he went he glanced at her briefly, almost as if he hoped she wouldn't notice, but of course she did. When he left the room he pulled the door closed behind him, even without her asking him to do so.

The tension that had shot through her shoulders and upper back eased and ebbed as the door closed and silence descended on the room, broken only by Miguel's slightly laboured breathing. She watched him collect himself, trying to gather together the small pieces that Evan's near-outburst had frayed and scattered. She allowed him a moment to do so, waiting until he turned his attention to her before she approached him.

Instantly she picked up on the weary frustration that her approach triggered but it didn't amuse her in the least. There was no room for that now, not with what was coming, and not with what had just happened. That close call had hammered home a point that she had been turning over in her mind for a little while now, since the man before her had come back to them. To _her_.

Evan was loyal, fiercely, even _furiously_ so, and that loyalty had always been fuelled by his feelings towards her. Now, with the potential of someone else in the mix, a third member to their little party, those feelings were showing themselves in other ways. Problematic ways. Protective ways, yes, but there was no way Irina could have missed the bright flash of white-hot jealousy that had burst through Evan for just a moment when he had had his fist reared back like that. When she had stopped him.

For a moment it was all she could do not to curse. Yet another complication she didn't need, didn't have time for, but would have to deal with sooner rather than later.

"You knew."

Irina looked down at Miguel as he said those words, once again stating a fact. "I did." There was no point in denying it, and it would cast doubt on her abilities to do so. That still mattered to her. It _always_ mattered.

His brow furrowed and she felt the concern flicker through him. "Did you make him?"

Perhaps she should have been insulted by that, or at the very least amused, but she was neither. Instead she simply said, "No." And she hadn't. She hadn't needed to.

"_Will you make **me**?"_

The mental projection of the question surprised her but only for a moment and she didn't show it. She held his gaze, seeing the fine threads of fear there even as he fought to rein them in, and she shook her head. "No."

It was too risky. Too much to keep up for prolonged periods of time and too easy to destabilise. It wasn't worth it.

And, she had to admit, even if only to herself, she didn't even want to try.

Before he could think to ask her anything else, and even before he could properly sort through his doubt and scepticism in the wake of her response, she straddled his waist once again. He tried to shy away, stopping himself when he remembered the futility of it. She looked him in the eyes up close and said, "I'm sorry, handsome. I really didn't want to do it this way, but—" Irina actually let out a sigh. "We're out of time."

The frown hadn't even fully formed on Miguel's face before she raised her hands and threaded her fingers through his hair on either side of his head. Too late he realised what was about to happen, that _something_ was about to happen at least, but any fight he might have tried to put up was stopped short when she swept into his mind, forcefully and without reservation, to do what needed to be done.


	27. Underway

Something was happening.

Something terrible.

It had started in the very back of his mind, right in the corners, in the smallest recesses and hidden spaces where only the deepest and most subconscious of thoughts and ideas dwelled. From there it had crept outward, slowly at first but building momentum before it blossomed with a terrible ferocity and speed. At that point Miguel felt with a cold and iron certainty that there was nothing he could do. There was no way he could hold it back. No walls he could build, no doors he could slam closed in its path. It was like a dam had broken, catastrophic and devastating and unstoppable. Everything in the path of that terrible tide would be swept away and there would be no stopping it.

He could feel himself getting _smaller_. It shouldn't have been possible, he knew that, he _knew_ it as surely as he knew his own name, but it was happening. He could feel it. He couldn't stop it.

How many other impossible things had he seen, felt, experienced before this?

So many. _Too_ many.

Wells of psychic energy, time travel, artificial intelligence, aliens, ghost ships, sentient and carnivorous plants, giant prehistoric reptiles, cursed relics from Atlantis, actual _gods_. Anything and everything that he once would have thought of as unbelievable and impossible before his service aboard the _seaQuest_, he had seen and lived through every single one of those experiences along with the rest of the crew and there was no denying them now.

And yet, even with all of that in his past, all of those unbelievable and surreal experiences, it still felt too much. Too big, too strange, too terrible.

It was not only the strangest thing he had ever felt but also the single most terrifying.

And yet, even with that icy certainty that had built up inside of him in the face of that crashing tide Irina had unleashed Miguel tried to fight. Because he _had_ to. Because not fighting was even worse. No matter how exhausting, how _damaging_, that fight ended up being he had to keep it up. He couldn't give up, he couldn't give in. Not now. Not after everything he had already fought so hard to endure and overcome.

They were coming. The crew. His friends. They were coming to fight her, to save him, to stop all of this once and for all. He had to hold out until then even if it took every last scrap of strength that he possessed. Even if it took _more_ than that.

But it was so much. Too much and too fast, too hard, too heavy. It hammered on and through and anything Miguel tried to throw up in its path was wiped out in the blink of an eye. All at once it was like being caught in the blinding oncoming lights of a speeding train, unable to think, unable to move, just waiting for the inevitable.

Miguel tried to scream but nothing came out.

And then it was over.

* * *

"Captain, come _on_."

Nathan turned to look at the young man who had come up behind him, the sound of Lieutenant Brody's voice carrying clearly and easily over the buzz of activity in the launch bay. With a shake of his head he said, "It's too dangerous, Lucas. I don't need to remind you of what happened the last time you came up against this woman, in any form." His gaze ducked distinctly to Lucas' neck, where the evidence of that encounter had come to present itself in a grim, ugly bruise where Ortiz's hand had been clamped, tightly enough to choke, perhaps even tight enough to kill if given enough time. "And don't even get me started on Clay Marshall," he pressed, feeling just for a moment that the comment might have been unkind, especially when he saw a flash of what may very well have been pain through the teenager's blue eyes. But it was a cruel to be kind sort of situation and he only wanted what was best for the young man standing before him now.

He turned to face Lucas properly. "While you're on this boat your safety is my responsibility." It had started out as an obligation, one that they had both been very aware of and varying degrees of bitter about, but fairly quickly it had become so much more than that. In more ways than one Nathan had come to feel like more of a father to the boy than the man who had married his mother. That man had taken this brilliantly clever and creative boy and unceremoniously dumped him wherever he thought he could cause the least trouble to his own work and potential successes. Out of sight, out of mind, for all intents and purposes. In the time that Lucas had been aboard the _seaQuest_ he had grown far more than anyone could have thought possible but he had also been in great, grave danger more times than any of them could count. Far more than any child, of _any_ age, should have been. It was the thing Nathan hated the most about the whole situation and even though the young man standing in front of him then was smarter, wiser, and humbler now than he had ever known him to be that didn't mean he was in any rush to expose him to any more danger.

If anything were to happen to him—

Unbidden, unwelcome, and thoroughly beyond painful, Robert's face flashed through his mind. A bolt of pain flashed through his heart in the same instant.

He would never forgive himself.

Lucas knew all about those pains and losses from his past but even with that knowledge he held Nathan's gaze, fiercely determined and unwavering. "What if it doesn't work?" he said, and even though it was clearly phrased as a question it was intended to be rhetorical. "What if you need someone to adjust the parameters on site?"

They had discussed the possibility of using the Gabrin device against Dvornikov, tapping into the frequency Lucas had managed to track and pinpoint and disrupting it so that she could no longer take advantage of it. It might not give them any kind of edge but it would hopefully rob her of any upper hand she thought she might possess with one of their own at her beck and call. Nathan knew that there was every chance that it might not work, that she possessed enough power even without that device to keep her claws in Ortiz's mind anyway, but with very little else up their sleeves they were intending to go ahead with it regardless of the potential for failure. Lucas had already rigged a portable device of his own for the job.

"It's too _dangerous_, Lucas. I won't put you in harm's way like that." It was a fight to keep his son's face out of his mind all of a sudden. Across the bay he saw Doctor Smith's head turn in his direction and did everything in his power to bring down the shutters and walls and barricades, whatever anyone wanted to call them. That pain was _his_, and his alone. It was no one else's burden to bear.

Lucas' expression was a touch pained as well then and he gave a small shake of his head, stepping closer and lowering his voice to say, "I can _help_. I _want_ to." There was a touch of regret in his voice. Regret, and something like pleading, even before he added emphatically, "_Please_."

Before Nathan could form a response a larger figure moved up close behind the young man and a voice far too soft for such an imposing frame said, "Dagwood will protect Lucas, sir, Captain, sir."

Lifting his eyes to regard the GELF quietly, Nathan noted the quiet intensity in Dagwood's expression. The determination, the passionate desire to help, do what was right, earn his keep and support his crew. His friends. His _family_.

All of a sudden, even though there were only two of them facing him, Nathan felt ridiculously outnumbered. There were more than a dozen conflicting and clashing thoughts clattering around in his mind and it was a struggle to quiet them. There was no sense in trying to organise them right then. For just a moment he felt not only tired, but outright exhausted, and he couldn't help the sigh that preceded his words. "All right." Even as Lucas' eyes lit up with surprise, relief, and a kind of youthful anticipation, Nathan pointed a finger at him. "But you do _exactly_ what you're told, either by myself or Lieutenant Brody." For just a second he flicked his gaze, as well as his finger, up towards his self-appointed guardian. "And you stick to Dagwood like glue. You don't leave his side, no matter what." His brows quirked sharply upward. "Is that clear?"

Lucas' nod was firm. "Yes, Captain." He pulled in a breath. "Thank you, Captain." And then he tossed a glance back over his shoulder at the GELF, giving him a nod as well, one that was returned, albeit more slowly on the larger man's part.

"Go on then." Nathan waved them towards the launch, which was ending up more and more like a can of sardines than anything else, turning to watch them go as they hurried off. Lucas had a satchel hanging close against his side, Nathan noticed then, and he couldn't help the momentary huff of laughter. Had the teenager known that he would get his way? He couldn't have. But he must have suspected, otherwise why bring the bag?

The flicker of amusement died out as he watched the teenager and his protector head up to the hatch leading down into the launch. Concern came crashing over him again, thick and heavy, and he hoped beyond hope, to whatever higher power might be listening, that he hadn't just made a huge mistake.

* * *

The world had dropped away and in its place had come a sense of terrible weightlessness before something so big and so powerful that it was beyond comprehension had surged up to take hold. The sensation that swept over him then was so familiar but so sudden and so overwhelmingly strong that it took him far too long to understand what was happening. But when that understanding came it did so with cold and iron certainty, closing around him so tightly that there was no escaping it.

Falling. He was _falling_.

Was he falling? Or had he been thrown? _Hurtled_.

Did it matter?

Whatever it was it felt like it would never end, that he would just fall forever, for the rest of time, and that he might very well go mad in the process.

And then it was over.

The landing was hard, rough, painful, shocking him to the core and robbing him of all breath and sense for what felt like an eternity. When it came back it did so with a screaming intensity, overloading and overwhelming and leaving him trembling and sweating on the ground.

Black ground.

Black and endless, stretching on and on and on, a bottomless chasm gaping wide like a great yawning mouth threatening to swallow him whole.

The first fine threads of fear bubbled up from the pit of his stomach and started to creep slowly but surely outward.

Struggling to breathe and fighting against the searing burn of agony in his arm and through his ribs Miguel lifted his head. When had he hurt his arm? In the fall? He couldn't remember. Past the loose curls of his messy hair he managed to focus his wavering vision enough to see what lay before him.

Blackness.

Endless blackness.

"No—" The word choked him on the way up and he coughed raggedly, roughly, painfully, fighting and failing to haul himself up off the ground. He put pressure on his bad arm and it blazed and he gave a short shout of agony, collapsing back to the ground. That was where he stayed for what had to be several minutes, shaking and shivering in equal measure, fighting to catch his breath and collect his few scattered and chaotic thoughts. The arm was broken, he remembered, shattered so effortlessly and so completely by Irina when he had angered her with his defiance.

When he lifted his head again, black hair cascaded and tumbled across his eyes, his vision watery and unsteady, he looked around again, hoping against hope that it had been a terrible nightmare before, that he hadn't _really_ seen what he'd feared he had.

But there it was. In all its dark, inky glory, the black spreading out in every direction. Nothing but cold empty black devoid of all life, sweeping out as far as the eye could see. In his gut he knew what it was, _where_ it was, but he didn't want to know that. He didn't want it to be true. More than anything he had wanted to be wrong. Never in his life had he wanted anything more.

But there was no denying it. No refusing it. Because it was there, in front of him. All around him. Everywhere.

_No_.

"Irina—" He coughed again, a harsh sound, an even harsher feeling, wincing fiercely against the pain that flared with the sharp motions of his chest. When he had enough air in his lungs to manage it he tried again, louder this time, hearing his own voice echoing all around him and out into the black. "Irina! _Irina_!"

Nothing happened. No response.

Nothing at all.

"No." A shaky whisper that time, the growing fear sliding icily through his veins and making his heart beat faster and harder. Struggling, stumbling and groping for balance, he found his way to his feet despite the pain and the dizziness and the nauseated tumbling of his stomach. "No, no, no." He turned on the spot, looking around, looking up, hunting desperately for something that was nowhere to be seen. Anything at all. _Anything_.

Anything to tell him that this wasn't it, that he wasn't lost here, that he hadn't been hurled down into the empty waste of his own deepest, darkest subconscious and abandoned once and for all.

He called and shouted until his throat was hoarse, until his voice was raw, and he ran aimlessly through the black to find—he didn't know what he might find and he didn't care, so long as it was _something_.

But there was nothing. Nothing and no one.

Miguel was alone.

Completely and utterly alone.

* * *

Wendy sat in the passenger compartment of the launch while the hustle and bustle of a mission already underway carried on all around her. People were talking amongst themselves, finalising plans and running through contingencies for scenarios that other members of the team tossed into the mix, others checked instruments and weapons. Up at the helm Henderson and Nathan were quiet, concentrating, while Lucas sat in one of the rear seats working furiously at a device, over which he had been huddled since they had set out from the _seaQuest_. Lieutenant Brody was across from him in the other rear seat, watching the teenager work but not saying a word, turned enough in his chair to listen to his men discuss the mission among themselves, poised and ready to jump in if he felt it was necessary to do so.

Dagwood had taken it upon himself to sit beside her. Not too close, so as not to make her feel crowded, but close enough that she felt comforted by his presence, and he too by hers she suspected. He had volunteered to come along in order to protect Lucas, she knew, but he was nervous. She could feel it, the crackle of those anxieties thick in the air when they were sitting this close. There was no mistaking it.

He kept it to himself though, as he so often did, wringing his hands in his lap and trying not to draw attention to himself. He silently watched the activity and listened to the conversations without really understanding any of it and she was overcome by the sudden compulsion to set her hand on his arm.

And so she did.

Dagwood's mood changed instantly, a good deal of the building confusion dropping away and those anxieties quieting to little more than a background hum. Wendy too felt more settled by the contact, and she took her eyes from the far wall where they had focused, not really seeing, to give the GELF a small smile. He did his best to return it, but she saw the strain of it. Dagwood didn't think he ought to be smiling, and so it was short-lived. That was understandable. Wendy let her own drop away as well.

Unlike the large figure to her side Wendy didn't have any real skills to protect herself or anyone else in the situation they were preparing to face, and yet, in a way, she was better suited to what lay ahead than anyone else in the launch. No one else here had any real psionic ability, though her gaze briefly shifted to take in Tony near the back of the launch who was paying close attention to one of Brody's men as they ran through a crash course on the weaponry they had brought with them. He had shown promise in the past, something she hadn't picked up on herself until it had been all but yanked, roughly, to the surface by her former mentor. _And lover_. She shut out that little voice instantly, with as much force as possible, and focused on Tony once again. His ability might have been minor, underwhelming in many ways, if not most, but the potential there was very real. She could sense it now in a way she hadn't been able to before, now that the heavy cover had been so unceremoniously torn from it, and she knew better than anyone else never to underestimate those things which might at first glance seem so insignificant.

What little power Tony had might just make all the difference in what was to come.

It hit her then like a sudden wave crashing over her and her hand on Dagwood's arm tightened, her fingers closing around him as she gasped, the shock of it making her sit bolt upright. Several pairs of eyes turned to her in the back of the launch and the conversation dropped to little more than a smattering of hushed whispers.

"Doctor Smith?" Dagwood sounded uncertain and troubled and his own much larger hand came to rest atop her own. "Doctor Smith, what's wrong?"

But she couldn't hear him. Not really. Her mind was somewhere else, somewhere far away, somewhere very dark and very cold and so very, very lonely.

As tears stung her eyes and an icy chill crept through her veins she felt a heavy sense of dread settle over her like a shroud.

Something had happened.

Something _terrible_.


	28. Out of Time

"Captain!" Lucas' voice from behind him was urgent and alarmed, making him turn in his seat hard and fast enough that his lower back twinged unhappily, sharply enough to let him know that it would be giving him hell later. Lucas was looking at him but immediately turned his head to look down into the main compartment of the launch. Nathan followed the teenager's gaze and was out of his seat instantly once he spotted the cause for the disruption. Henderson, to her credit, glanced back but didn't waver for a second otherwise, keeping them moving on the way to their destination.

He hurried down into the main section of the launch, barely even noticing the way Brody's men hastily cleared his path so he could get to the side bench more quickly. Dagwood was looking back and forth between him and the woman beside him, concern and confusion plain to see on his face.

Nathan lowered himself to one knee in front of her. "Wendy?" Nothing. She wasn't looking at him so much as staring, unseeing, _through_ him. "Wendy, can you hear me?" Setting his hands on her shoulders, stiff and unmoving as they were, every inch of her body tight with tension, Nathan gave her as much of a shake as he dared. "_Wendy_!"

With a shallow, strained gasp she came back to herself, blinking furiously, tears spilling from her eyes to track swiftly down her cheeks. None of the colour that had drained out of her face returned and when she met Nathan's gaze her own was fearful and pained. "Nathan." It was little more than a strangled whisper. The tears had already tracked down to her chin, where they dripped down to her lap. "Oh, Nathan—" Her breath caught, hitching awkwardly.

"What is it, Wendy?" he asked her, lifting his hands from her shoulders to either side of her face. "What's happened?"

He felt her try to shake her head in his hands, the effort falling short not because of his touch but because she was already trembling so much that it was all but impossible to tell the difference. "Something—" She had to pause to swallow and even when she tried again her voice was unsteady and thin. "I don't know." Her head shake then was easier to distinguish as she fought to pull the tattered edges of her composure back together. Nathan knew that she hated to seem out of control or vulnerable, that the last thing she wanted was to be seen by the crew when she was like this. Somehow, even though he wouldn't have thought it possible, it made him resent the woman they were chasing even more.

"It's all right," he told her, his voice hushed so that no one outside of her and Dagwood would hear. The GELF would say nothing of this, Nathan knew. The men behind him would keep this to themselves as well, at least if they knew what was good for them. If Nathan didn't give them hell for gossiping like school children himself then Lieutenant Brody would, he was sure. "Take a breath. Take your time." He moved his hands back down to her shoulders and rubbed them up and down the very tops of her arms.

It took her more than a minute to collect herself, squeezing her eyes shut and wiping her hands quickly and with a quiet sense of desperation over her face, down her cheeks and the underside of her jaw and chin. With a few deep breaths she finally seemed to come back to herself a little more, at least enough to speak without losing her voice before she could get more than two words out. "Something happened," she said, confirming what anyone looking on had already suspected. "I don't know _what_," she went on, shaking her head apologetically, "but it felt _awful_." He saw her swallow again, as if a bad taste was sticking in her mouth and she couldn't shift it. "Nathan, whatever's happened—" Her breath shuddered on the way in, and again on the way back out. "I've never felt anything like it."

That, it seemed, was as descriptive as she could be. It wasn't much but it was something to go on, some small scrap of information that they had now which they hadn't had before. Perhaps to the rest of the party in the launch it seemed like nothing at all but Nathan would be keeping it in mind, held tightly like something precious, trusting that he would know when to use it if the opportunity to do so presented itself.

Whatever that something turned out to be, whatever Wendy had felt, it left a cold and uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach, one that continued to grow even after he assured himself that she was going to be all right to continue, and even after he headed back up to the cockpit of the launch to reclaim his seat at the helm. By the time he had himself settled back in his chair, performing a cursory sweep of the instruments and readouts to bring himself back up to speed on their location and status, he had almost convinced himself that they had to be prepared for the worst.

_Almost_.

* * *

Her head was pounding fiercely, a sick and unsteady feeling crashing through her in terrible waves that alternated between threatening to spill her to the floor and feeling like she might empty her stomach right there on the spot. Neither was preferable. Neither was _acceptable_.

She had come back out of the room with less colour in her cheeks and a fine sheen of sweat over her face, neck, and chest, something that Evan had picked up on immediately. She sensed his concern, as easy to identify as a large black cloud in an otherwise clear sky. And she felt his disapproval. That was like the first threatening rumble of thunder in that rolling cloud. It was impossible to miss.

Saying nothing to either dismiss his fears or support them Irina had walked past him and back into the main room. That, she knew, would be ground zero for what was to come. What _was_ coming. It was creeping ever closer, drawing nearer and nearer with every passing second, as inevitable as the dawn. Her awareness of their proximity had dimmed quite a bit in the wake of what had been done in that room but she could still feel them. If she reached, if she stretched herself, they were there. Coming closer. Drawing in.

Even with the pounding in her skull and the wavering watery feeling in her knees, even with that diminished capacity to feel them coming she wasn't afraid. What was there to fear? What could she possibly have to be _concerned_ about, even? They were little more than ants compared to her, insignificant and thoroughly unthreatening.

Despite his doubts and his jealousies she would always have Evan. He would follow her to the ends of the earth and beyond, no matter what stood in his way. And Irina knew full well, better than anyone, that nothing stood in his way, at least not for long. Those things ended up broken and tossed aside, discarded like so much rubbish. In the past it was something she had very much enjoyed watching but today she might not take so much pleasure in it.

Today there was too much at stake, too much she didn't care to part with or sacrifice. She glanced down at the sealed packet that had been so desperately smuggled off the _seaQuest_, information that would fetch millions on the black market, plans and details and schematics she had worked tirelessly to retrieve from what most would consider an impossible source. It was priceless.

But it wasn't the only thing she wasn't willing to part with. It wasn't the only prize she planned to fight to keep hold of.

Those who were coming for her, coming for _them_, would learn the hard way what happened to those who thought they could take what was rightfully hers.

* * *

She had debated bringing Addison with them. Not directly into whatever unknown situation they were about to walk into, obviously, but at least on the launch. If she was being really honest with herself she was starting to feel genuinely sorry that she hadn't given in to the urge. It felt like they could use all the luck they could get right about then. Even surrounded by people she trusted, even going so far as to say she trusted them with her _life_, she felt unnerved and uneasy. There were a lot of unknowns in this situation, it felt like a lot of things could go wrong in too many ways for her to feel anything else.

But she did her best not to show it. It was important to keep those sorts of things as well contained as possible, especially given who they were about to go up against. Given _what_ they were about to go up against.

Lonnie's experience with psychics was limited, the only direct encounter she could recall was with the comatose man who had called himself The Avatar, and even that hadn't been direct and targeted specifically at her. She, Miguel, Lucas, and Commander Ford had been caught up in what had happened at Aleph Colony and as disorienting and unpleasant as it had been to feel the force of his power, what little of it had been able to get through Wendy's shield, it hadn't had a lasting effect. They had all bounced back quickly enough, thankfully. If they hadn't it was entirely possible Wendy wouldn't have come back from that place.

She turned her gaze in the other woman's direction briefly, concerned about what had happened on the launch but confident enough in Doctor Smith's abilities to trust that she could continue. Wendy had insisted that she could, at least, and Lonnie respected the other woman enough to take her at her word. She would never do anything so reckless as to put the rest of the team at risk. She would put herself directly in the line of fire before she allowed anything like that to happen.

They had paused a little way out for Brody to brief his men one last time, sending them out around the building in a wide but tight perimeter so Irina Dvornikov would meet some sort of resistance no matter where she tried to make her escape. They were working on the assumption that she was still inside what Lucas had determined to be an old, decommissioned and abandoned textiles factory. The place hadn't been in use for more than a decade and should be fairly empty, he had said, but that was another assumption.

There were a lot of those flying around, Lonnie found herself thinking, though she tried to keep a tight hold on the concern that accompanied that realisation.

The men had followed their orders and headed out and Lonnie had taken a good look at the exterior of the building, unable to stop herself from wondering if they might be too late and the woman was no longer inside. Maybe Miguel wasn't in there anymore either.

The thought made her stomach churn.

She looked across to Wendy, an unconscious glance, hoping to see some kind of reassurance on the other woman's face but there was nothing of the sort. Wendy wasn't even looking at her. If she had picked up on anything Lonnie had been feeling then she was keeping that well and truly to herself. Lonnie suspected it was more likely that the other woman hadn't sensed it, her powers focused elsewhere.

"Can you feel anything?" Captain Bridger asked her, his voice lowered despite the fact that any psychic in the vicinity would render such efforts useless.

Several moments passed in silence before Wendy shook her head in a negative. "She could be shielding herself from me," she said, to the Captain specifically, but they were all standing close enough together that the rest of them could hear her easily.

"What about Miguel?" Brody asked, leaning in a little, having scanned the area to make sure his men were well on their way and just to make sure they weren't being watched by any conventional means.

Wendy turned her head and looked at him, staying quiet long enough for that churning sensation in Lonnie's stomach to start up again. "If she's shielding herself," Wendy said at last, "she could be shielding him as well."

"Is that what you felt on the launch, maybe?" Lucas looked quietly hopeful as he made the suggestion. Lonnie couldn't blame him. She wanted that to be the case as well.

With another shake of her head Wendy said, "I don't know. I've never felt anything like it." After only a moment she added, pointedly, "Like _her_."

That was far from comforting. Lonnie found herself clutching her weapon that little bit tighter to herself, casting a glance to her side where Piccolo was standing, looking equally troubled.

"Okay." Brody glanced at Bridger, receiving a nod as confirmation to continue laying out the plan of action. "According to what Lucas found there are two entrances on this side of the building, one at each end. We'll split up and use both entrances. Doc', Captain, you two stick with me. Henderson, you take Piccolo, Lucas, and Dagwood to the other end."

Lonnie gave as firm a nod as she felt she could manage. Normally she wouldn't have been in a position to take up any sort of lead. Normally Miguel would have been one of those in their little ground combat unit and he not only had more experience than her but he outranked her. She hadn't been expecting to do what was being asked of her. She couldn't let that rattle her though, she had plenty of experience of her own and she knew she could handle herself in tough situations. Hadn't she done so many times before this? Why should this be any different?

She didn't let her brain give any responses to that thoroughly rhetorical question.

"If anyone sees anything suspicious call it out. Otherwise, maintain radio silence." Brody swept his gaze over the party and when there were no objections offered he gave a nod. "All right. Let's go."

Lonnie and her little group didn't hesitate after that, heading off in the direction of the secondary entrance point to the far end of the building before them. She kept them back and as much to the shadows as possible, wanting distance and natural cover in case they were being watched. The distance was more to throw off any psychic sweeps of any sort but considering the woman's range so far, given all that they had seen, she suspected that was probably a futile effort on her part.

Tony took up the rear, the only other member of the party with any actual ground combat experience, with Lucas right behind her. Dagwood followed the teenager dutifully, having to hunch his impressive frame down quite a bit in order to keep from being overly conspicuous. They were probably still fairly easy to spot, she knew, but it was worth making the effort anyway.

Once they reached the secondary entrance she had Lucas check for any electronic locking mechanisms or energy outputs of any kind, taking full advantage of the few devices he had brought with them along with his expertise. He was quick about it, but thorough, and told her in as few words as possible that there was nothing of any kind around the entrance that he could pick up with his gear. It frustrated her that that assurance wasn't as comforting as it _should_ have been, but she kept that to herself and gave Tony a nod when he gestured to the door, offering to open it while she covered it with her weapon.

There was nothing on the other side. Still, she was cautious as she approached the doorway and crept inside, sweeping her weapon from side to side, ready to cover the others while they followed her inside if the need arose. But there was nothing to be seen or heard, no movement or presence of any kind. Lonnie felt the frown form on her face and glanced sidelong to Lucas, asking him in a hushed whisper, "Anything?"

He gave his head a shake. "No, I—" He was frowning too. "The signal is here, but I'm not picking up anything else."

That was strange but she didn't let herself get distracted. "Where?" The signal, she meant.

Keeping his eyes on the screen of the device before him Lucas raised an arm and gave a distinct waving gesture off to her right, and a little ahead. He brought his gaze up then and said, "In there."

Lonnie followed his gaze, keeping her weapon raised, and clocked what he meant immediately. Looking isolated and a little out of place in the middle of the wide open floor now that all of the equipment was long gone there was a room, completely walled off, its door closed and windows shuttered. If she was honest with herself, it looked a little—

"Creepy."

She glanced at Tony, who gave her a one-shoulder shrug.

He wasn't wrong. He had read her mind, actually. Part of her wondered if that was in the literal sense, but then she reminded herself that his ability was latent, so much so that he could barely use it. Tony never seemed to _want_ to either, particularly, at least as far as she had seen.

"Lucas," she said, getting his attention easily. "Stay with Tony and Dagwood. I'm going to check it out." She glanced at Piccolo who gave her a brisk nod to tell her he was good and then she headed off in the direction of what had to have once been an office of some sort, most likely for a floor manager or someone along those lines. She could see it now, someone peering through those blinds to make sure the employees were hard at work before heading back to their desk to take care of papers and any number of other small executive tasks. The workers probably wouldn't have liked them very much, that person peering through those blinds. But all of them were long gone, just like the machinery, and now only the office remained.

Not entirely sure what she was going to find once she reached it she cast her gaze about briskly and regularly as she went, trying to make out the sounds of movement from the other end of the building where Jim and his small party had made their own entrance. She wanted to make contact, break radio silence, but Jim had given them an order. And she would follow it.

With one gloved hand she reached for the doorknob, keeping her body back from the opening as she twisted it, half-expecting it to resist her. But it didn't. It gave easily, all things considered, surprisingly enough considering its age and disuse, and she nudged it enough to send it swinging inward. Waiting, counting off several seconds, she leaned around the doorway just enough to check for any possible hostiles who might be lying in wait, ready to ambush.

But there was only one figure in the room. The sight of them made her heart just about jump up into her throat.

"Miguel." Lowering her weapon she hurried into the room and directly over to him. His head was bowed, his upper body leaned forward just enough to tell Lonnie that the only thing keeping him from toppling right out of the chair was whatever was binding his hands behind his back. Just visible through his thick dark hair at the back of his head was a strip of something pale and once she crouched to get a look at his face she saw that it was a gag. That was the first thing she got rid of, doing so as carefully as she could.

It was while she was pulling it from his mouth that Miguel stirred, groggily at first and then more certainly. Before he could jerk himself all the way in the chair and possibly do himself any further harm she said in a low voice, "Hey, whoa, it's me. It's Lonnie." She had a hand on his chest, wanting to take his face in her hands but she almost didn't dare. She was glad that she hadn't, once he lifted his head far enough for her to see his face. That darkening bruise across the left side of his jaw looked nasty already. "Take it easy," she went on, meeting his gaze as it cleared and steadied, a good deal of the panic fading away as he got his first good look at her in return. Lonnie offered him a small smile. "It's okay. We're going to get you out of here."

His breathing was a little rough, heavy with alarm, but he let out what sounded like a sigh. "Lonnie," he said, reassuring her that he knew enough about what was happening that he would probably be able to move. "Thank God."

"Sit tight," she said, half-expecting a slightly sarcastic retort of some kind given her choice of words but nothing came, so she just moved around behind him, getting a look at the restraints holding him. Part of her had been dreading cuffs of some kind, possibly even electronic ones that she would have to get Lucas in here to disable, and she felt a flush of relief when she saw nothing of the sort. The ropes looked tight, uncomfortably so, but they would be a lot easier to deal with than what she had been worried about. Quickly and quietly she withdrew a knife from her belt, saying as she did so, "Hold still," before she got to work with the short, sharp blade.

As she worked she glanced around the chair to the doorway, checking not only for any possible dangers but also to see if she could spot Tony and the others, but they were nowhere in sight. They must have hung back, sticking to the shadows provided by the walkway overhang she had spotted above, circling the entire lower level. Lucas was probably working away with his computer, either trying to pin down any other signals or doing his best to shut down the one they had traced here. Lonnie couldn't help but wonder where it was, that device. Miguel was carrying it somewhere, he had to be if Lucas was still picking it up right where he had been locked up, but _where_?

Speaking of where.

"The woman," she said to him. "Irina Dvornikov." Normally she might have cared about mispronouncing a name like that but right then she didn't care. "Do you know where she is? Is she still here somewhere?"

"Uh—" Miguel sounded thoughtful as well as a little disoriented, still coming around from whatever it was that must have knocked him out. "I'm not sure." He wasn't quiet long before he said, with more certainty, "No. No, she, uh—" He glanced back as the ropes gave, freeing his wrists. "She left a while ago. I'm not sure how long."

Lonnie didn't think the Captain would be comforted by that news but they would figure it out. They would think of some way to stop that information hitting the black market and spreading to the worst possible parties. They had to.

"Okay," she said, coming around to his front again. She still had to free his ankles. "Nearly done," she told him.

"I guess she didn't want me going after her," Miguel said, trying for light humour but to Lonnie he just came across as resigned.

"Hey," she said, lifting her eyes to his. "There was nothing you could have done. Okay?" He didn't respond so she went on, "From the sounds of it no one could have stopped her." She had been intending to tell him about the device that the woman had used but something in his voice made her second guess herself. That was probably the last thing he wanted to hear, and there was every chance he already knew about it anyway. "I'm just sorry we couldn't do more to help you." She had one ankle free, tossing the cut ropes off to the side before shifting position to work on the other.

"It's okay."

She lifted her head, a wave of disappointment and self-reproach crashing through her. "No it's not." This was probably neither the time nor the place but she suddenly couldn't stop herself. "We should have realised something was wrong sooner. We should have known." And the fact that they hadn't had been eating away at her ever since they had found out what was really going on.

Miguel was watching her face. Thoughtful again. "You mean _you_ should have known?"

That surprised her a little, and not knowing what to say at first she dropped her attention back to the last restraint. Her knife had fallen still while she'd been talking. "I—" She tried to use the sure way she moved the blade back and forth to steady herself and her suddenly scattered thoughts but it didn't work nearly as well as she had been hoping. "Yes," she admitted at last, without looking up.

His voice was quiet when he asked, "Why?"

God, but that felt like a loaded question, and suddenly she became all too aware of the weight of his gaze on her, so heavy and focused. It was a lot. Almost more than she could stand, actually. She didn't say anything until the blade had cut all the way through the last of the rope but when she did speak the steadiness of her own voice surprised her. "I think you know why."

She looked up at him then, finding him looking down at her. There was a knowing light in his eyes as they met hers and she felt strangely small. Vulnerable. She didn't care for it.

Her voice sounded thinner and quieter then when she asked, "Can you stand?" She had taken her eyes from his, her confidence to meet his gaze well and truly shaken. What a stupid time to say such a thing. Such a _stupid_ thing. What had she been thinking? She thought for a moment about staying in her crouch so he wouldn't see whatever flush of embarrassed heat had rushed into her cheeks but they had to get moving. So she pushed herself to her feet, waiting for him to confirm or deny so they could head back to the others one way or another. Maybe she would have to call Dag—

He was on his feet without a word and one of his hands had gone to her chin, lightly but just firmly enough to tilt her head up again. She found herself looking into his eyes once more, wondering with a sense of subdued disbelief how he could be so composed after everything that had happened, after everything that had been _done_ to him, but then he did something that shattered every single thought going through her head.

Miguel kissed her.

* * *

There was a sound. So quiet, so distant, so hard to pick out in the endless emptiness. It echoed faintly from every direction and he closed his eyes against the impossibility of it. How was there an echo with nothing for the sound to reverberate off of? No walls, no cliffs, no hard edges, no edges of any kind. So how was there an _echo_?

God, but that was so insignificant. So meaningless.

That sound. It was a _voice_.

And he _knew_ that voice.

Didn't he?

There. Again.

Yes. Yes, he knew that voice. Knew it well.

"Lonnie?"

It couldn't be. Surely.

_Again_.

But there it was. And was it getting louder? Was that only because he had noticed it, identified it as speech? He didn't care why. He only cared that it was.

"Lonnie!"

And another sound then. Another voice.

Cold dread crept through him, starting in his belly and spreading swiftly outward.

No, no. No no no, _no_.

"Lonnie! _Lonnie_!" Fear had joined the dread and he turned and shouted, calling that name at the top of his lungs, until his voice was hoarse and his throat was raw, each renewed cry of her name making it more and more painful to do so. But he kept going because he had to reach her. She needed to hear him. The _real_ him.

But it was too far. Too out of reach.

And it was too late.

* * *

It stole her breath as well as her thoughts and for what felt like far too long she did nothing at all, just stood there with her face angled up to his, feeling his lips against her own. Feeling the warmth of him so close, the solid strength of him against her. She could smell him too, this close, with next to nothing between them.

Not the time. Not the place. Some small part of her scattered brain that was still aware told her as much in short sharp reprimands but instead of paying heed to that voice she responded to that kiss instead. Her empty left hand rose and touched to the side of his face, no longer resisting the urge to touch him now that he had stepped so boldly across the line.

It was still inappropriate. Still against regulation. She knew that. _He_ knew that.

But they were doing it anyway.

And then, abruptly and without warning, they weren't.

There was a sudden strong pressure around her right hand before it was emptied and in the same instant that his lips broke from hers Miguel's arm was around the back of her shoulders, taking hold of one firmly enough to spin her around while she was still standing right up against him. The hard jerk made her gasp, her arm still raised where she had been touching his face, pinned securely against her own chest as Miguel's arm closed around her from behind, holding him back against her.

She remembered then, as its edge brushed dangerously against her throat, what she had been holding in her right hand.

The knife.

Miguel was holding it to her throat and speaking in her ear, saying, "Too little too late, Henderson."

Her knees went weak. His arm around her, trapping her against him, was the only thing holding her up as regret and anger and shock came crashing over her in violent waves.

What had she done?

Lonnie herself, so foolish and reckless and _stupid_, but not just her.

That awful woman. That awful, hateful, cruel, selfish woman.

_What had she done_?


	29. Belly of the Beast

Irina had felt it when it had triggered, that moment when what she had done, what she had _made_, reared its head and came well and truly into being. In the back of her mind she could feel the pull, the ever-present tension of another consciousness so intricately tied to her own, a heavy and constant weight, but with a deep breath and only a moment taken to gather and collect herself she was composed and steady once again.

Evan was, once again, looking in her direction. She kept her eyes forward, watching from the shadows of their concealment, wanting to see the scene that played out and take it all in. There would be a point when she would intervene, naturally, she wouldn't leave everything to chance and play games to the point of losing a valuable piece on her side of the board but after all the stress and difficulty that the _seaQuest_ crew had caused she was more than keen to see the tables turned well and truly against them.

All things considered, it felt like justice.

Watching silently and stilly from the shadows out of sight and out of mind Irina felt the slow smile creep across her face.

What was taking so long? That question kept going around and around in Tony's head, with increasing impatience and a good deal of building uncertainty, as he stood close to Lucas and Dagwood in the thoroughly unfamiliar surroundings of an old factory that hadn't seen any real signs of life in God only knew how long. Every time the question resurfaced he found himself glancing around and then back at that doorway through which Henderson had disappeared more than— well, he actually didn't know how long it had been. But it felt like _too_ long.

"What's goin' on in there?" His voice was hushed as he turned his head to Lucas, trying to sneak a glance at the screen of the computer the teenager held in his hands but the angle was wrong.

Lucas, on the other hand, had his eyes glued to the thing. "I don't know," he admitted, his own voice suitably lowered as well.

Behind them both Dagwood looked from one to the other, before making a low sound of unease and shifting his weight from one big foot to the other.

"The signal's still live," Lucas went on, "but it's not really moving too much."

Tony frowned, the furrow of his brow deep and unmistakable. "What's _that_ mean?" As far as he could see it didn't mean much, except perhaps that Ortiz was hurt and couldn't really move on his own. Or maybe he was unconscious. But if either was the case then surely Henderson would have poked her head out and waved them in to give her a hand. It didn't make a whole lot of sense whichever way he looked at it.

"Wait." Lucas stood up a little straighter. He had been hunched over the computer a little. He lifted his gaze from the screen and turned it towards that little room in the middle of the big open floor space, an odd thing that looked so out of place. It looked almost like someone had dropped it down there by mistake, like it was supposed to go in another building altogether and no one had ever bothered to fix the mistake. "Oh my God." That time Lucas' voice was hushed not because of any real need for stealth but because of the shock that went on to dominate his entire expression.

Tony turned his head and immediately understood why.

Henderson was emerging from the room but she wasn't alone. Ortiz was with her, something that by all rights should have been a good sign, but the manner in which they were exiting the room was anything but reassuring. Henderson was being held back against Ortiz, one of his arms wrapped tightly around her and holding her there. One of her arms was pinned up against her, rendering the hand useless. Her other was clutching Ortiz's arm, obviously wanting to fight the grip he had on her but there was something very obvious and _very_ dangerous stopping her from struggling.

Ortiz had a knife to her throat.

Dagwood made another low animal sound, like a deep whine. Tony heard him shifting his weight again, completely thrown and confused by the unexpected turn of events.

He wasn't the only one.

"Hey, Miguel," Tony heard himself say, his mouth opening and the words coming out before he had even realised he had anything _to_ say. They were supposed to be keeping the noise to a bare minimum but none of them had anticipated a twist like _this_. So, orders be damned. It was time to wing it. "What's goin' on over there, buddy?"

The look in the other man's eyes when they turned his way made Tony reconsider moving any closer. It was a hard look, stony and unwavering. It reminded him more than a little of the way Ortiz had looked at him when he'd been stung by that ancient helmet. This was different though, he knew. It had to be. They weren't dealing with curses or anything so bizarre this time. Were they?

God only knew. Or maybe He didn't have a clue either.

Tony only knew that this was a dangerous situation and Ortiz really wasn't himself. In the time that Tony had known him he had come to associate Ortiz with anything _but_ aggression, which was the only thing he could see on the other man's face in that moment. It looked out of place, ill-fitting, something that really didn't belong. Under his breath he found himself asking, "Are we sure that's really him?"

Lucas gave his head a small shake. "The signal's coming from him, all right." He had dared to drop his eyes just briefly to the screen in his hand. "That's Ortiz."

Damn. That wasn't the answer Tony had been hoping for.

"Take it easy, Ortiz."

The Sensor Chief turned that hard and uncompromising gaze in Lucas' direction when the teenager spoke and tightened his grip on Henderson. She gave the smallest gasp, obviously afraid to move more than the absolute bare minimum. "Drop your weapons," Ortiz said, turning his attention back to Tony primarily.

That fear on Henderson's face was a pretty powerful motivator. "Okay. Okay, no problem." What else could he do? Brody hadn't briefed them on what to do if anything like _this_ happened, though Tony was fairly sure none of them could have seen this coming from more than a million miles away. So he raised his free hand, keeping it in plain view as he lowered himself in a crouch and set the gun on the ground. Without even waiting to be instructed as such he used the toe of his boot to give the gun a firm shove, sliding it across the ground away from him.

Ortiz looked satisfied by that, but only briefly. He turned his gaze back to Lucas. "That too," he said sharply, obviously meaning the handheld computer.

For just a moment the teenager hesitated and Tony noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that the kid had been trying to use it while it was lowered from his field of vision. Pretty sneaky, and commendable even, brave and a little reckless too given the circumstances. But ultimately futile, given Ortiz's newest command. After that moment of hesitation Lucas let out a sigh and did much the same with the computer as Tony had with his gun. It looked like it actually pained him to nudge it with his foot, cringing at the way the casing scraped against the concrete of the floor.

"Okay," Tony said slowly, swallowing against the sudden dryness in his throat. "_Now_ what?"

* * *

That was a pretty good question, Lucas thought. Now what? It had been going through his head even before his friend had spoken the words out loud and even now that they were out there in the open between them, hanging heavy and almost foreboding, like storm clouds waiting to break, it was still going around and around without any signs of slowing down.

With his computer on the ground he couldn't hope to do anything about the device that was being used to exert greater, easier control over Ortiz, something that was obviously right up there at the top of their list of problems. If he could just interrupt the signal, even if only for a minute, then Henderson would be able to get out of the other man's grip at the very least. That would eliminate _one_ problem. But Ortiz, or this version of him at least, had been smart enough to anticipate something like that, and now his computer was on the floor and a good three feet away, well and truly out of reach of anything he might have been able to do to help.

Frustration bloomed and he clenched his jaw, annoyed by his helplessness. It was a feeling shared by his roommate, he could tell, and though Dagwood didn't really feel such things himself he had to be feeling at a loss, at least. Lucas couldn't be sure without turning his head to check but then he realised Dagwood was no longer all the way behind him. He was more _beside_ him now, having inched closer and more towards the front of their little group. How someone so large had done something like that without being noticed was thoroughly beyond Lucas.

Was there any way to contact Brody and alert him to what was happening?

No, probably not.

_Wait_.

It hit Lucas with the force of a speeding train and he almost chastised himself out loud for not thinking of it sooner. How could he have forgotten something so simple?

_Doctor Smith?_

He kept his expression from shifting as best as he was able to while he concentrated on sending out that call. As knowledgeable and skilled as he was with just about all things electronic, when it came to matters of the mind like _telepathy_ he was about as ignorant as they came. All he knew was what he had been told or what he had read and a good portion of the latter was hearsay and speculation anyway. He knew that it was powerful, potentially dangerous, and right then he also knew that it might be the only thing that could help them.

_Doctor Smith? Doctor, it's Lucas, __**please**__ answer me_.

* * *

Despite the need for silence and discretion she couldn't help the gasp that tripped past her lips as that voice resonated through her mind. She knew it instantly, seizing on to it and keeping a tight hold, and in doing so establishing a connection between them. It was one that the teenager wouldn't really be aware of himself but it reassured her at least, knowing that she was tied to him in that small way.

"Wendy?" Nathan had heard her gasp. Of course he had.

"It's Lucas," she whispered back. "Something's wrong."

"What is it?"

Even as the Captain asked that Lieutenant Brody was adopting a defensive posture, his weapon raised and levelled without so much as a waver or a tremor, his eyes scanning their surroundings even more keenly than before.

Her response for Nathan was little more than a brief fluttering of her fingers as she raised her hand. She didn't know yet, the motion was meant to say; just wait. _Lucas? I'm here._

"_Oh thank God."_

_What is it, Lucas? What's wrong?_ She could feel his panic, a low simmer already threatening to come to a boil.

"_It's Ortiz."_ She waited for him to go on, her silence cue enough for Lucas to do just that. _"Something's wrong. He's holding Henderson hostage."_

"What?" She hadn't meant to say that out loud, the shock disrupting her concentration enough for her to speak it verbally instead of just mentally. The men with her turned their eyes her way and she had no choice but to repeat Lucas' message to them, word for word.

"What the hell?" Brody's disbelief was obvious even before he spoke and he threw a questioning, confused look to the Captain over her shoulder. Wendy could feel the same feelings that were radiating from the Lieutenant coming from Nathan as well. Neither one of them could believe it, and she could hardly blame them.

Concentrating again she returned to her connection with Lucas. _Can you speak to him? Try to get through to him, maybe?_

"_We've tried. He's not himself."_ Lucas was at a loss. More than that he was frightened, even if he was hiding it from the others. Of that much she had no doubt. He wouldn't want anyone who could see him to know that he was rattled in any way, even if he could hardly be blamed for feeling such a thing. Fear was a perfectly natural response, a healthy and rational thing to feel actually, and Wendy would never shame or think less of anyone for feeling it. But she understood, as well. Allowing others to see your fear, that weakness, was never easy. Just as fear was a perfectly natural thing to feel it was also perfectly natural, instinctive even, to want to hide it from those who might use it against you.

Was that what she had felt on the launch? Whatever had happened to Ortiz, whatever had been _done_ to him, had that been that awful feeling that had all but overwhelmed her upon their approach?

Not knowing was almost worse than the prospect itself.

Once again, just as she had upon their entering the building, she reached out as far as she could to try and find another mind not unlike her own. And once again, just as when they had entered, she got very little in return. She knew that didn't mean anything, of course, she couldn't make any assumptions or offer any guarantees either way, especially not given their previous experiences with the woman they were facing, someone who had been able to thoroughly shield her presence even as she deftly manipulated the mind of one of their own from countless miles away.

The _power_ of this woman was staggering, unlike anything Wendy had ever seen or even read about. She had never believed that such raw psychic strength was possible and yet here she was, this Irina Dvornikov, shattering all of those beliefs and certainties as if they were little more than sugar glass. It was unsettling to say the least, ground-breaking in a way that was completely and utterly alarming, not to mention unwelcome. It was _frightening_.

_Keep trying, Lucas_, she told the young man on the other end of the connection, trying to offer him comfort along that tethering line, hoping that she could give him at least a small measure of reassurance and stability. _Just keep trying. Don't give up._ She glanced to the men with her. _We're on our way._

Now that this situation had arisen surely that had to be their priority, getting to the others and helping them, Henderson especially. As she thought of the other woman in what had to be an utterly terrifying situation, one none of them could have seen coming, she did her best to put her connection to Lucas to one side, as carefully and neatly as she could, in order to make mental room for another contact.

Her head was already starting to ache. This had never been her strong suit, speaking to other minds. But she had to try.

_Lonnie?_ She felt a flicker of fear, confusion, uncertainty. Like a tiny light in a field of black, little more than a flicker. Wendy did her best to seize it. _Lonnie, it's me. It's Wendy. Stay calm._

* * *

_Just stay calm_.

It was all she could do not to start, abruptly and violently, in Miguel's grasp. The faintest brush of the knife's edge against the skin of her throat was enough warning to keep her still, practically rooted to the spot, barely even daring to breathe.

Lonnie felt a wave of shame wash over her as her eyes began to sting with unshed tears.

Stay calm, the voice had said. Just stay calm.

She didn't know how to respond, how to reach back for the voice that had reached for her, one she knew well even if not in the way it had come to her in that moment. She had never tried before, had never even had any sort of contact with a psychic before her assignment to _seaQuest_, at least not to her knowledge. Wendy was the first telepath she had met and she had been cautious at first, hopefully understandably so, but in a fairly short amount of time she had grown comfortable enough with the other woman that she actually frequently forgot Doctor Smith had any abilities at all.

_It's okay, Lonnie. We're coming._ Wendy's voice was soft and steady in her mind, like cool water passing over a stinging burn, and it was impossible not to draw at least a little comfort from that sense of familiarity. _Just stay calm. We'll be there soon. It's going to be all right_.

But _was_ it? She didn't know how it could be, with Miguel's arm wrapped tightly, threateningly, around her and with that knife pressed to her throat, held by his hand. He had seemed like himself, like _Miguel_, the man she had met and gotten to know and developed more than a passing interest in over the months that they had been serving side by side on the UEO's flagship. He had seemed fine, or at least as fine as anyone who had been through the things he had could be.

But he wasn't fine. And neither was she. _None_ of this was fine.

_Just stay calm._

* * *

It was like the buzzing of insects, irritating and difficult to ignore altogether even as she tried to tune it out. Briefly she closed her eyes, standing perfectly still save for the steady rise of her chest as she drew in a slow, deep breath.

Evan was watching her. Again. _Still._

_Out there,_ she told him firmly, annoyed that she had needed to remind him of what should have been his top priority in that moment. He shouldn't have been focusing on her right then, not when there were enemies in their midst. Seven of them. Irina could sense that much. And the laughably inadequate Doctor Smith was one of them. That much she could pick out easily enough as well.

If she hadn't exerted herself as much as she had so recently she would have been able to discern more, she would have had more influence and sway over what happened next, but there was nothing to be done for it now. The deed had been done because it had been a necessity in the face of what _seaQuest_ had seen fit to send her way and there was no turning back now. She would gather her strength and push through, just as she always did.

And besides, she had the ultimate ace up her sleeve. No longer up her sleeve _now_, perhaps, but it had thrown their little group into enough chaos and confusion that it was a definite advantage, and one that she fully intended to utilise.

Opening her eyes she watched as the second group of intruders, those who had seen fit to enter from another side of the building, began to cross towards the first, those who had walked headlong into the open jaws of her perfectly laid trap.

Irina couldn't help but smile.

She was going to enjoy this.


	30. Falling

The time for stealth and discretion had gone well and truly out the window, as far as Jim was concerned. All protocol and procedure for these sorts of things had been cast aside with the news that one of their own was in trouble. _Another_ one of their own, he corrected himself. He didn't like how things were playing out, completely contradictory to what he had mapped out in his head, and as foolish as it had been for him to get ahead of himself in any way who could have blamed him for trying to be optimistic?

No one else needed to, really. Jim blamed himself. Pragmatism was the better course, usually, especially in their line of work. They had to be practical and realistic, even if they were hoping for the best. They had to tackle each problem as it came up, try and think two steps ahead even if they couldn't really get a clear view of the board.

Dammit, though, who could have seen _this_ coming?

Jim made sure he was at the head of the small party as they quickly traversed the wide open floor space between their point of entry and the one Henderson's team had used, the one _he_ had directed them to. It had been a coin toss of a decision, there had been no way for him to know Henderson's team would be the ones to encounter—well, _whatever_ it was they had encountered, but that didn't stop him from wishing he had done things differently.

It didn't take him long to cross the distance, catching sight of Lucas, Dagwood, and Piccolo beyond a single isolated unit, their attention fixated on something that he couldn't see. Whatever it was, it was just around the other side of that unit, which would, with any luck, give him an advantage in the moments to come. Henderson was around there, he assumed, along with Miguel, or whatever was masquerading as Miguel more to the point.

In sprinting the way he had he had put some distance between himself and his companions. That hadn't been his intention, to leave Captain Bridger and Doctor Smith to catch up to him, but he couldn't help but be conscious of the danger one of his team might be in, and the responsibility that weighed heavily on his shoulders as a result. Lonnie was in trouble because of a call _he_ had made, and it was his job to get her out of it. As he slowed his own approach in order to come up along the side of that unit he could hear the footfalls of the Captain and the Doctor in pursuit, and he took a hand from his weapon in order to wordlessly motion for them to hold back.

Jim had no idea what he was going to find around that corner. The last thing he wanted was for Bridger and Smith to get tangled up in it too.

He inched forward, noticing Piccolo glancing his way and giving him a look that would tell the Seaman to keep his cool and not give him away, both hands back on his weapon as he approached the corner. Slowly, steadily, he took in a deep breath. Held it for a few seconds. Let it out just as slowly and steadily.

And then he wheeled around the corner.

There was Miguel, or something that looked exactly like him at least, one of his strong arms wrapped around Henderson, holding her flush back against his chest, a knife held in his other hand and pressed to the woman's throat.

Jim needed to get his attention. And fast.

"_Miguel_!"

That did the trick, snapping the other man's focus in his direction, and Jim was momentarily struck dumb by the aggression on that face he knew so well, a face normally exhibiting mild annoyance at its absolute worst but usually so comfortably set in varying degrees of friendliness, readiness, and concentration. The only other time Jim had seen anything like what he was seeing now was when they had dug those relics up from the ocean floor. And yet, somehow, this was much worse. There was a focus there now that had been absent then, a drive and a purpose that made him look all the more dangerous.

The moment passed and Jim managed to pull himself back together, his own expression set in grim determination, his weapon levelled on a man he considered a friend. "Let her go." His voice was hard and firm, unwavering in its conviction. He needed Miguel to release Henderson. _Now_.

Miguel stared back at him, unflinching, and then something unnerving and chilling crept across his face. It was a smile. Slow and almost sinister in its satisfaction, that smile lifted first one corner of Miguel's mouth and then the other.

And then, without a word, he did as he was told. He just didn't do it in the way Jim had been expecting, or hoping.

It happened in a blur, the motions confident and swift: Miguel withdrew the knife and used his trapping arm to whip Henderson around before grasping and then _shoving_ her with all the force he could put behind the action. Lonnie barely even had time to gasp in shock as she was propelled back, right off her feet, and into the small group who had been powerless to do anything but watch. Lucas gave a shout, as did Tony, who rushed forward with Dagwood in order to catch Henderson before she could crash into the ground and suffer any kind of injury. Dagwood's superior reach managed to get the job done, but Piccolo skidded down on his knees to ensure Lonnie was properly supported as she stumbled and buckled before being caught by the GELF's steady hands.

In the next instant, the very same instant in which Jim had intended to rush forward to engage and hopefully subdue, the very same instant in which he began to lower his weapon, there was a bolt of sudden, white-hot pain through his shoulder. It ripped a shout out of him, pained and surprised, and he hardly even had time to realise that the knife previously held in Miguel's hand was now buried, almost all the way up to the hilt, in the flesh of his shoulder.

And then Miguel was on him, or rather crashing _into_ him, barrelling forward and driving his upper body down and forward in a charge that Jim had no chances of escaping. All he could do was sacrifice his grip on the weapon in order to clutch twin handfuls of Miguel's uniform in order to give him some semblance of balance and support as he was driven back. _Hard_.

They went down just as hard, with Miguel taking full advantage of Jim's compromised balance by hooking one hand under a thigh and yanking it towards himself. It completely shattered what little balance Jim had had left and he toppled back, his shoulder blades taking the brunt of the impact, driving another harsh cry out of him. The knife wound blazed horribly and almost completely blinded him, momentarily robbing him of breath even as Miguel pulled his own weight up enough to drive a punch down into his opponent. It caught Jim across the face, _actually_ blinding him for several seconds, sending every single one of his thought processes into utter disarray.

Somewhere close by he heard a shout. A cry of his name? He couldn't be sure.

_Fight_.

He had to fight back.

Instinctively, reflexively, he got one arm up between them, palm planting firmly against Miguel's chest and keeping him there, even as he wrenched his body to one side at the waist and managed to get one leg up and around Miguel's hip. He couldn't help the short shout of frustration and sheer determination as his shoulder blazed, as he put all of his strength into wrenching back the other way and throwing the other man off of him and into a roll across the floor.

That gave him the space and the time he needed to heave himself up off his back, feeling adrenaline pulse through his body and do a halfway decent job of dulling that pain in his shoulder to the point where he could keep going. For now.

Miguel was in a crouch as well, but not for long, his dark hair thrown across his face in a wild and almost _feral_ way, giving him a distinctly dangerous and half-crazed look. He didn't waste any time in propelling himself back to his feet and charging back towards Jim. Pulling in a breath Jim braced himself, but not to absorb the impact. Miguel was stronger, as he had told the Captain, but Jim? He was faster. Lighter on his feet.

So it was that he let the other man get close, not close enough to grab or tackle but close enough to let his momentum work against him as Jim swung himself suddenly and without warning to the side and out of the way. Miguel had next to no time to correct, only just managing to keep himself from crashing face-first into the front of the fixed unit, wheeling around with a fierce expression, teeth bared in a silent snarl of frustration.

Jim showed a smirk, letting the other man get a good look at it.

It had the desired effect, provoking Miguel into coming at him, allowing Jim to gauge body posture and weight distribution in order to figure out what was going to happen next. And he thought he had. And he would have been fine if Miguel hadn't thrown his weight _down_ at the last moment and used his momentum in his favour to slide the last couple of feet between them, successfully knocking Jim's legs out from under him with a solid sweep of one booted foot. Jim went down hard, all the wind getting knocked out of him, momentarily seeing stars and feeling like his lungs had forgotten how to function as his whole chest was engulfed in a blinding rush of fire. His shoulder hadn't taken too kindly to that landing, obviously, and he was feeling it even through the pulsing adrenaline, but he had to get up, had to keep fighting, otherwise—

Miguel was on him again, driving another punch down into his face that brought those stars screaming back. Jim didn't even really _feel_ the punch that followed, still too caught up in the power and pain of the one before, and he certainly didn't hear the loud cry from close by, a voice full of dread and desperation.

* * *

"_MIGUEL_!" Her throat burned from the force of the shout, aching fiercely even before the name had finished leaving her lips, and dismay was quick to take root in the pit of her stomach when she realised it had had no effect whatsoever. "Miguel, _stop_!" she shouted again, hearing Tony and Lucas join in, their voices a chorus of fearful pleading. Henderson was in Dagwood's arms, dazed and confused and thoroughly overwhelmed, even if only for the moment.

"What's wrong with him?" Nathan's voice was sharp and concerned, his hand settled in the centre of her back, perhaps to try and give her strength without her even realising that she needed it, or maybe it was just to steady himself in such a rocky and uncertain situation.

Wendy shook her head, never taking her eyes from the form of the Sensor Chief even as he reared his arm back for another blow. There was blood on his knuckles. "I don't know," she said breathlessly, alarmed and unnerved, partly because of the sight before her but also because she felt so completely out of her depth. "It's like—" A chill had settled in her veins, icy cold and creeping. "It's like he's not even _there_ anymore."

Ortiz landed the blow. Brody grunted and coughed.

"Can you stop him?"

Wendy didn't dare to break her gaze from the two men tangled together on the floor. "I have no idea." And that was the truth. She had never encountered anything like what was facing them now, someone they all knew so well, _trusted_ implicitly, acting so unlike himself that he was practically a stranger.

Threatening Henderson, making aggressive demands of Tony and Lucas, and now attacking Jim. _Beating_ him, for all intents and purposes.

"Hey!" Tony's voice, a harsh shout, meant to sound commanding and aggressive but a fraction too shrill and shaky to pull it off. "_Hey_!" There was the whine of a weapon being primed.

_That_ got Ortiz's attention, his head jerking up towards Tony, and Wendy sensed a surge of resentment and dark, twisted amusement that made her blood run cold. From her position at the corner of the manager's unit she had a clear view of Ortiz dropping a hand, reaching for something not at his own belt, but Jim's.

"_TONY_!"

The name had barely left her lips before Ortiz was jerking the gun from the holster and raising it swiftly, squeezing off a shot as quickly as he could. Thankfully enough of the name had filled the air between them for Tony to heed her warning and throw himself out of the path of the bullet that cracked into the wall behind where he had been standing only moments before. From his place on the ground he looked back at that wall, at the hole that had been punched clean into it by the bullet, at the cloud of dust that was still scattering outward. His eyes wide, his shock and fear thick in the air, he turned to look at Wendy.

And that was when Nathan grabbed her by the upper arms and yanked her back and around. With a gasp she whirled, colliding with the side of the unit and momentarily losing her balance before she was able to reclaim it.

Another deafening crack of gunfire filled the air.

Ortiz had taken a shot at her.

At _her_.

Wendy could barely breathe, such was her own shock and disbelief, and she couldn't help herself when she clutched at Nathan's arm around her. In that moment she needed his strength desperately, his steadiness and resolve.

Because it wasn't over. Because something else was coming.

Something terrible.

* * *

Black was starting to close in around the edges of his vision, and fast. Jim knew that if he didn't get up off the ground and out from underneath Miguel soon then he would lose his chance altogether. The other man would beat him into unconscious, if not even further, and that would be it.

His chance came sooner, and more certainly, than he could have expected. Or hoped.

Jim felt the jerk at his belt and heard the reports of gunfire, somewhere beneath those booming cracks the sound of a voice that was soon lost in the reverb, and he knew he had to move. Act. _Now_.

And so he did, forcing his eyes open even if they wouldn't clear all the way, the wet heat of blood on his face barely a concern in that moment as he took a rough hold on the front of Miguel's jumpsuit. Twisting his grip even as he bent awkwardly, painfully, to get a leg up between them, he gritted his teeth and pushed through that pain to plant his foot solidly and _shove_. At the same time he bucked his lower body, using the power in his pelvis and thighs to push and propel the other man not back but up and _over_.

Miguel was caught off guard, his head had been turned with his arm outstretched back towards where Jim had left Doctor Smith and the Captain, and by the time he realised what was happening and tried to fight back it was too late. Jim made a grab for the gun but couldn't quite get a hold on it, instead only managing to dislodge Miguel's grip on it enough for the whole thing to fall free and clatter to the ground somewhere nearby.

That was good enough for now. It had to be.

As quickly as he could he twisted himself and rolled onto his front, already planting his gloved hands down on the ground to push himself up. Staying on the floor wasn't an option, it made him too vulnerable, too much of a target, and if there was one thing James Brody hated it was being at a disadvantage.

When he lifted his head and saw Miguel _smiling_ at him, any and all confidence he had managed to reclaim wavered and threatened to collapse completely. There was something about that smile. Something _chilling_.

Jim heard Lonnie draw in a breath in a gasp and made the stupid mistake of following her line of sight back over his shoulder to where two figures were emerging from the shadows. He didn't even have time to regret that stupid mistake before the sound of movement reached his ears, at almost the exact same moment that Lucas shouted his name. Tensing, bracing, he turned his head to meet whatever was coming.

It was too late.

* * *

He had hoped to give Lieutenant Brody enough time, but with a sinking sense of dread and despair he watched as Ortiz barrelled into the other man even as the Security Officer was halfway up off the ground. The force of the collision slammed him back and over, and Lucas couldn't help but flinch at the cry of pain from Brody as he landed awkwardly on his front, no doubt jarring the knife in his shoulder.

Tony was getting back to his feet and stepping forward again, raising his weapon but Lucas stopped him with a clipped, "Wait," as Ortiz kept moving. He didn't want Tony to run the risk of hitting the Lieutenant, who was straining to get himself up again.

"Luke—"

"_Wait_." He didn't want Tony to hit the Lieutenant. But he also didn't know what would happen if they hit Ortiz. How would the device he was carrying react? What would it do to his _mind_? The Sensor Chief was clearly already so tangled and twisted that Lucas was sure he wasn't the only one wondering if they would ever get him back the way they had known him. They couldn't take the risk of making that any worse.

Could they?

Lucas actually almost cursed his hesitation when Ortiz kicked Brody, a devastating roundhouse that not only downed the Lieutenant but succeeded in throwing him several feet across the ground in a rolling heap. Brody somehow managed to hold on to consciousness, fighting to get back to his feet, and Lucas felt a flicker of hope before he realised, too late, what was going on.

Those figures emerging from the shadows were coming closer, and Brody was between them and Ortiz. Even as the realisation hit him Lucas watched with his heart in his throat as Ortiz drove forward and slammed his whole body into Brody, forcefully ramming the Lieutenant back even further. He gave a bark of pain, a horrible sound that actually made Lucas feel nauseated, but in the same instant he realised his feet were carrying him forward.

"_LUCAS_." It was so loud, so forceful, so commanding, that his feet practically rooted to the floor even before the next word left the Captain's lips. "_Stop_."

God, but he wanted to help Brody. _So badly_. As he turned his head he saw, with no small sense of horror and dread, that Ortiz had rammed the Lieutenant back far enough that he was now close to those emerging figures. Far too close.

To his credit Lieutenant Brody fought once again to get his feet under him but even as he did that the second of those figures, a man none of them recognised, took hold of the back of the Security Officer's uniform, effectively trapping him. The man was not only large, but _huge_. Lucas had never seen anyone like it. "Tony," he practically gasped, swatting his hand at his roommate, unwittingly almost smacking the weapon the other man was holding. "_Tony_."

Tony raised the weapon and took aim.

"Shoot him, Tony. Shoot him!"

Lonnie's voice was close to panicked as she joined in. "_Tony_!"

Lucas expected to hear the weapon discharge, that distinct sound of energy being released, but instead what he heard sent a shaft of icy terror straight through his heart in the same instant that it leapt up into his throat.

Tony _screamed_.


	31. Splintering

One moment she was in Dagwood's arms, still struggling to find her feet, her balance, and some kind of understanding of the situation as a whole, and the next she was rushing forward as that scream filled the air. It was all instinct, reflex, everything she had trained to achieve and had never even thought herself capable of before joining the UEO, and beyond that, the _seaQuest_. It was more than sinking in now: it was becoming second nature.

If only it had kicked in earlier.

There was no time to dwell on that though. Regrets and self-admonishments could wait until later, once this terrible mess of a situation was over and done with. Lonnie couldn't help but hope that that would be soon.

"Tony?" The confusion in Dagwood's voice was clear, as was the fear that followed. "Tony!" The GELF hurried forward, hot on her heels as she dashed ahead, having freed herself easily from Dagwood's supporting hold. As soon as she had started to move he had released her, his own instincts kicking in.

Lucas had already whirled and dropped to his knees, too late to catch his roommate as Tony's legs buckled and spilled him to the ground, the weapon he had been holding only moments before slipping from his grasp with a clatter so he could clutch at his skull with his hands. Even as he fell that scream kept coming and it didn't stop until he was out of air to power it, as Lonnie reached him at last and dropped down as well, her hands going to his back and her heart hammering wildly in her chest.

"What's wrong with Tony?" Dagwood's voice had taken on a frightened, whimpering quality, and Lonnie was sure that if she turned to look at him he would be rubbing his head in that way he always did when he was confused and afraid. But she couldn't spare the time to do that. She had to try and help Tony. Even before she had dropped she had been saying his name, trying to get some kind of reaction out of him, but there was nothing.

And then he screamed again.

It was an awful sound, cutting through her and right into her racing heart, stopping her own breath in her chest, fear and the beginnings of panic threatening to take hold. She looked to Lucas, more than a little frantically, and saw the same thing in his eyes that she was sure was in her own. He was scared too. Terrified, even. Turning his head quickly enough to toss his hair messily he looked across the room towards—

And then it made sense. An awful, wretched, sickening kind of sense.

"Stop it!" she shouted above Tony's scream, her own gaze locked on the woman as well, where Lucas' had come to rest in a mixture of accusation and dread. "_Stop it_! You're hurting him!"

But that was the point, wasn't it? Lonnie knew that. She didn't need to see the slow smile spread across the other woman's face to confirm that horrible suspicion. Tony had had a weapon, something with which to threaten her and that mountain of a man she had brought with her, the one now holding on to Brody as if he was little more than an unruly child. As Lonnie watched the man's other big hand closed around Jim's neck from behind, not only holding him up and in place but threatening to choke him. That panic that had started to spark inside of her spiked upward and stopped her breath in her chest again.

It had all gone horribly wrong and none of them had seen any of it coming. When Miguel had told her that the woman was gone she had been foolish enough to believe it, even after he had changed and—God, she didn't even know what had happened. What _was_ happening, more to the point, unfolding in front of her like some sort of awful movie that she was powerless to affect or change in any way.

"_STOP_!" It hurt her throat that time, the force of the cry, and she felt the prickling threat of tears in her eyes as Tony shuddered and writhed beneath her hands.

The woman only smiled. Silent and sinister and thoroughly without remorse.

Lonnie had never seen anything so purely and unapologetically evil in her entire life.

* * *

In the moments before that scream had rent the air Wendy had clapped her hands over her ears, the sudden assault of pain and panic almost more than she could bear. She gasped, tears springing to her eyes and spilling easily down her cheeks, trembling fiercely in Nathan's arms as he kept her concealed around the corner of the office. He was worried about another shot, worried about his people, worried about her. About _everything_.

And then the pain, jolting through her head like lightning, blazing and brutal. If she had had the breath in her lungs to do so she might have screamed as well, joining her voice with Tony's in a terrible harmony, but instead all she could do was shudder and gasp and try to endure.

"_Wendy Smith."_

The shock of the voice in her mind almost buckled her legs beneath her, wrenching another gasp out of her and making her jerk in Nathan's arms. He held on to her more securely, hugging her back to his chest. He didn't know what was going on but he knew that she was struggling. He knew that she needed the anchor.

"_Oh, Wendy."_ Singsong, taunting, tempting. Beckoning her to show herself.

Tony screamed again. More tears spilled down her cheeks and she gave a shaking, thin cry of her own. The pain was so great, so terrible, and even though it was not her own it was almost enough to shatter her composure completely.

"_Stop hiding, Wendy."_ All derision and disapproval now, without any sort of attempt to conceal or disguise it. The other psychic wanted her to know exactly how she felt. _"Your people are falling, one by one. Like dominoes."_ A low roll of laughter. The sound chased a shiver down her spine. And then the voice levelled, strengthened, taking on a commanding and authoritative tone. _"Come out and __**face**__ me, worm."_

The barrage of images that the other psychic forced into her mind was much too clear to ignore, too powerful to turn away from, it filled every corner of her mind and flooded her senses with the smell of blood, the sound of screams, and the sweeping sense of loss and despair. It was not only a threat, but a warning.

She had to show herself.

When she tried to move those arms around her closed a little tighter and she made herself take her hands from her head, sucking in a breath with the hurried desperation of a person who feared that they might be drowning. "Nathan—" Her voice failed her then and she felt a rush of frustration but thankfully it was enough. His arms loosened and he let her slip from his hold, shakily stepping away from and around him and towards the corner of the office. Her hand was still against the solid wall when she emerged from behind it, showing herself to the other psychic at last.

Irina Dvornikov greeted her with a smile that was utterly without warmth or any kind of approval. It was the smile of a predator that had already downed its prey, so sure of the kill that it felt no fear in taking its time and relishing every moment of the end. Wendy felt the icy chill of dread slip through her veins, reluctant to take the tips of her fingers from that wall, sure that she would just spill to the ground if she did. She stood there feeling thoroughly unprepared and outclassed. Like a child.

Here before her was a woman who had not only just clearly and crisply communicated with the mind of another, but one who was seemingly effortlessly controlling every part of one man while keeping another floored with waves of psychic agony. Lucas and Henderson were trying to help Tony, who was struggling on the ground between them, with Dagwood looking on, at a loss for what to do. Lieutenant Brody was clutching at the big, strong hand that had closed around his neck to trap him in place, halfway towards choking but still managing, just barely, to draw breath.

And there between them was Ortiz, looking so much like a predator himself that Wendy hardly recognised him at all. His shoulders were heaving up and down, reminding her so much of a prowling, stalking tiger that she almost took an involuntary step back and even further away from him. His face was drawn in an expression of determination and aggression, his dark eyes fixed on her, and then just past her as Captain Bridger saw fit to follow her out into the open.

Her voice carrying easily across the space between them, even with Tony's thinning sounds of pain and the very beginnings of a choke from Jim, Irina said, "_There_ you are." It might have even been welcoming if not for the very clear edge of disdain. The smile she wore was sure and certain and satisfied. "Afraid to face me, I see."

It took all the strength she possessed to keep her voice even close to steady when she replied, saying, "No, Irina. Not afraid." But it was a lie, and a terrible one too, triggering an almost instant flurry of laughter from the other woman.

"Oh, _Wendy_. Oh, how terribly sad." Irina's expression might have been sympathetic if it wasn't so amused at the same time. "Look at these people. Your crew, your _friends_. They were counting on you to keep them safe, to use your power to protect and shield them." Irina smiled. Pitying. "They had no idea that you were so weak."

"And manipulating others to do your bidding is—what?" Nathan cut in from just behind her, having come to stand to her left. "It's certainly not a show of strength. Not in my book."

"Oh, because I care so much about your views of me, Captain Bridger," Irina snapped back, her expression tightening like she had just tasted something sour. "Your opinions mean even less to me than _hers_ do."

Wendy knew Irina was talking about her then. She couldn't help but frown, shaking her head as she said, "What have I ever done to you, Irina?" Any answers she might have found in the other woman's mind were sealed tight, like they had been locked away in a maximum security safe. "Why do you resent me so much?"

Irina made a scoffing sound, her shoulders tight and every muscle in her body seeming coiled almost, like she was flooded with unspent tension. "I resent any creature who fears their own power, their own _potential_." She sneered. "You _fear_ it, what you can do, what it means to be what we are, and that makes you weak. Fragile. _Pathetic_." She lifted her chin. "While you shied away from what you might become I embraced it. I learned from it, nurtured it—"

"And look at you now." Nathan again, cutting in sharply and directly, demanding to be seen and heard and recognised. "Using all that power to corrupt and control others." Wendy heard the traces of disgust in his voice, finding herself surprised by them despite having known him as long as she had. She knew how he felt about those who would use others to get what they wanted, people who would prey upon those less powerful to suit their own needs. "And then you use them to _steal_ things that don't belong to you, things that could do a great deal of harm if they fell into the wrong hands."

Irina was unmoved, thoroughly unfazed by the Captain's remarks. "Yes. I do." She seemed proud of it. "Haven't you heard, Captain?" She spread her arms. "Money makes the world go round." Her arms lowered again. Wendy noted the tension in them still, the tightness of the movements. "We all have our skills, our gifts, and we use those to make a living. You have your little boat and your oh-so-valiant quest to make the world a better place, and you are all compensated by the almighty UEO for your work, aren't you?" Another smile. "I use my skills, my gifts, and I make _my _living. Just because it doesn't fit in with your neat and tidy little world view that doesn't make it any more or less valid than yours."

Across the room Tony was still making those terrible sounds, animal sounds, getting smaller and weaker and increasingly strained. Wendy ached to go to him, to help him however she could, but she knew that any movement on her part would provoke the woman standing before them.

"_Yes. It would."_

Wendy couldn't help but start, actually having to grip the corner of the office in her surprise. God, the _power_ of her. It was _beyond_ staggering. In all her years with her own gift Wendy had only ever been able to manage one or two concentrated tasks at a time, but Irina? She was splitting her focus in at least three directions, if not more. For all they knew the huge man to her side was as much under her control as Ortiz, who continued to stand between them, reminding Wendy not only of a prowling tiger but also a dog dutifully protecting its master, ready to snap and bite at the slightest provocation.

"We can't let you keep what you stole," Nathan went on firmly. "We can't let you sell it on to the highest bidder."

Irina laughed, a low roll of snide amusement. "Oh, Captain. You say that as if you could _stop_ me." She smiled again then, a slow and wickedly purposeful expression, and as Wendy watched the other woman's face she became aware of movement between them.

Ortiz was slowly lowering his body into a crouch, reaching down towards the ground whilst keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Wendy and Bridger, not taking his attention from them for so much as a second even as he retrieved something from the floor. The sound of metal lightly scraping against concrete seemed abnormally loud in the wide open space, even with the strained, strangled sounds of Tony and Jim fighting to draw breath.

Standing to his full height again Ortiz raised his arm, and with it the gun he had torn from Brody's belt.

Wendy could tell from where she was standing that the barrel was not aimed at her, but just off to her left.

There was no fear in Nathan's voice when he said, "If you want to kill me, Irina, do it yourself." He even stepped forward, bringing himself a little ahead of Wendy and making himself a much clearer, easier target in the process. "Use all that power of yours to do something yourself for a change." With a slight nod of his head he indicated the man between them, the very same man that they had all come here to save. "Let him go. You've used him enough."

Though there was no way he could have known it at a glance Nathan wasn't wrong about that. Far from it. Miguel looked pale, haggard, exhausted, his skin coated in a fine sheen of sweat. Though his arm was steady along with his gaze and everything else about his exterior Wendy knew he was running out of time. Irina was using him up, perhaps without even realising, and soon there would be nothing left to save.

"I don't think so, _Captain_." Irina's resentment was clear, her emphasis on the title intended to be disrespectful and almost mocking. "You're the one who failed him, not me. Whose fault is it that I was able to get my claws into him in the first place, hm?" The smile that had slipped onto her face dropped like a stone. "A captain is meant to protect his crew." Her eyes, sharp and severe, snapped to Wendy. "And their doctor is meant to heal them."

Wendy's whole chest ached as if she had been punched.

"You _both_ failed him," Irina pressed harshly. "And it's time you paid the price."

Ortiz's finger was on the trigger, the gun levelled squarely on Nathan's chest, aimed right at his heart.

As Wendy watched, that finger started to squeeze.

* * *

_**No**_.

This couldn't happen. None of it. He couldn't _let_ it happen.

It was going to hurt, like hell, what he was already beginning to do might even be the last thing he ever did, but if it bought the others even a moment of opportunity then he had to do it. And dammit, he was _going_ to do it.

There wasn't enough air in his lungs to yell but he did it anyway, desperately grabbing with one arm at his own shoulder, taking hold, and pulling. It was more like ripping in the end, his own urgency compromising his coordination and making the whole thing sloppy and awkward but the blade came out all the same. The pain was excruciating, roaring down his arm and through his chest with enough force to drive another cry out of him, rough and strangled as it was.

That hand around his throat started to tighten, what sounded alarmingly like a growl rattling down his ear from just behind his head, but Jim didn't let it faze him. He couldn't. There was no time.

He almost dropped the blade, his fingers and the handle slick with blood, but by some miracle or massive stroke of luck he managed to keep hold of it as he hurriedly adjusted his grip before bringing his arm around and back with as much force as he could muster, hoping beyond hope that it wasn't for nothing and that the son of a bitch really was as big as he'd seemed coming out of the shadows.

Something solid stopped his backward swing, something that jerked and recoiled in reaction, and Jim was rewarded not only with a booming shout so close to his ear that it all but deafened him but the sensation of fresh, hot blood pulsing over his hand even as he lost his grip. Wherever the knife had ended up he left it behind. That was fine. It had served its purpose.

The beast of a man snarled again, a ferocious sound, and then with his hand still clamped around Jim's neck he swung his arm around in a vicious arc. When he released his grip there was no way for Jim to stop himself as the force of the swing sent him not only across the room but right off his feet altogether. He had just enough time to let out a cry of surprise, pain, and maybe even the very beginnings of panic before he hit something hard and unyielding, or at least something that _should_ have been. That same something cracked and caved and then the thunderous sound of shattering glass enveloped him as he went even further back and _through_.

And then that was it. He didn't even feel himself falling, let alone hitting the ground.


	32. In Between

Something was very, _very_ wrong. More than wrong. Without the word to describe it Miguel only knew that it was terrible, terrifying, and that he had to do everything in his power to affect it, change it, _stop_ it. By whatever means necessary.

But what made it all that much more terrible and terrifying was the building sense of helplessness, the increasingly crushing weight of hopelessness bearing down on him from all around. The inky blackness was endless in every direction, an empty eternity that cast nothing back when he cried out and promised no relief or reprieve no matter how far he ran or how desperately he hunted for some kind of way out.

Miguel felt lost. Lost and afraid and so very alone.

But something was happening beyond this nothing into which he had been thrown and abandoned. Something awful.

How he knew that Miguel couldn't even begin to say, it was only a sense that lingered and did not abate and he knew by now to trust his gut. Years of training and time in the service of the United Earth Oceans Navy had taught him how to do that, just when to listen to those small, niggling instincts that others might have overlooked or dismissed. Miguel knew when to listen, when to pay attention, and just when he should be concerned.

That time had come and gone, without a shadow of a doubt, practically hurtling past him at breakneck speed. For Miguel there had been no missing it, no mistaking it, and since that time he had only searched more desperately for some kind of way out, some kind of way _up_, some means of communication with the outside world or even just a glimpse of what was happening beyond this isolation.

His head was pounding right along with his heart, a racing, drumming thunder, his energy running low and leaving his limbs aching and trembling. Miguel felt on the brink of exhaustion even though he knew that none of this was real: the surroundings and the emptiness and even the physical form he was possessing at that moment, it was all little more than a projection.

It was in his own mind.

_His own mind_.

The force with which his breath caught in his throat was almost painful, his bottom jaw dropping a little in his disbelief that he hadn't thought of it before. This was all in his head, _his_ head, and what was it that Irina had said?

_Your mind makes it real_.

How could he have been so stupid? How could he have forgotten everything he had learned, either first-hand or by other means, everything he had experienced, and given in to his fears and anxieties? And so quickly at that. Irina had told him, in her own words, that this place, his mind, was exactly that: _his_. In a wild flurry he remembered the Aleph Colony, Wendy going into the mind of the man who had unconsciously called himself The Avatar. That man, Charles Ross, had built himself a world in his mind, thinking that everything else had been destroyed in the wake of his accident and that that small and surreal world was all that remained. It had been a strange place, Wendy had told them, eclectic and odd in all the ways that people themselves were, because Charles Ross himself had constructed it, even if he hadn't realised that fact until told by someone from the outside.

None of it had been real.

"This isn't real." His voice was quiet at first, hushed in a way he hadn't intended, the realisation and the power of it still dawning even as he turned his head, looked up and around, as if trying to find something that wasn't actually absent, merely hidden in the darkness. When he spoke again it was louder, with a little more force. "This isn't real." The words vanished into the dark and died there, or perhaps they were simply smothered into silence, but Miguel told himself not to notice, not to care. That didn't matter. "This isn't _real_," he said again, louder still and with even more conviction, calling out into the blackness to whoever or _what_ever might hear him.

But it was Miguel who heard something. He almost missed it at first, distant and disordered as it was, like sounds somehow scrambled into the wrong order. Miguel found his feet carrying him in the rough direction of that odd disruption, straining to listen, doing his best to keep his desperation in check so that it wouldn't rattle what little calm and control he had managed to achieve.

"_If you want to kill me, Irina, do it yourself."_

Miguel frowned. "Captain?" Quiet again, subdued by his confusion, but even as he was muttering that one word the voice went on and he missed bits and pieces of it but he could still patch together enough of it to make some kind of whole. And what he heard made his stomach twist, his heart skip a beat, and his breath stop in his chest.

And then, from the dark, somehow louder and clearer than before, _"Let him go. You've used him enough."_

It _was_ Captain Bridger. It was really him. Out there, beyond, in the world that he had been cast out of. Trying to help him.

But Miguel knew, as any member of the _seaQuest_ crew did, part of the battle was in helping yourself. What would there be for the Captain and whoever else was out there to help, to _save_, if he didn't fight not only to hold on but drag himself out of this black and empty hole which Irina had cast him into. Whether or not she had intended for him to waste away and die in here, if in fact it was possible for him to die inside his own mind, he didn't know and right then at that moment he had to convince himself that he didn't care.

Because he had work to do. And no time to waste.

He couldn't rely on others to do all of that for him, he couldn't _ask_ them to after what he had done, all that he had put them through, and so he wouldn't. Even with that simmering fear and gnawing hopelessness, the anxieties and the doubts creeping all around him in the looming dark, Miguel intended to fight. He intended to resist and rebel and prove to Irina once and for all that he was more trouble than he was worth. More than anything he intended to get _out_ of this pit she had hurled him into, and take back all that was his. His friends, his career, and his very life.

Miguel wasn't done yet. If nothing else, he planned to go down fighting.


	33. Thunderclap

Several things happened at once.

Glass shattered. There was a gunshot. Somebody screamed.

Reflexively Lucas ducked and covered his head, fingers knitting through the hair at the back of his skull and tugging it hard enough to hurt as he squeezed his eyes shut, involuntarily holding his breath as those loud sounds clashed and overlapped. The wide open space made those sounds echo and rebound back at them, making them seem like they were coming from all directions at once. It made it difficult to pin them down properly, but there was no mistaking where that gunshot had originated from. Only one person was holding a gun, at least as far as he knew.

And then there was a new sound, low and guttural like a growl and close enough that Lucas couldn't help his morbid curiosity, lifting his head just in time to watch Dagwood barrel forward and across the room. Even as the GELF's name left his lips in an alarmed cry Lucas watched as Dagwood thundered across the space between him and the hulking figure of a man, the same man who had until moments before been holding Brody by the throat.

Where _was_ Brody?

Before Lucas had time to figure that out Dagwood collided with the other large man and he practically felt the collision, the force of it tricking his mind into believing that the very ground shook with the impact. Dagwood let out a roar as he ploughed into the other man, who unleashed a similar booming cry of his own.

Lucas felt his jaw drop.

And then he remembered the shot, whipping his head so fast to the right that he momentarily made himself dizzy, his heart once again just about leaping up into his throat when he failed to find Captain Bridger in the spot he _knew_ the older man had been occupying only moments before. His mind started to race, panic threatening to creep in at the edges before he caught a fleeting glimpse of a limb at the edge of that unit stuck there in the middle of the floor like some kind of strange landmark, all alone in an otherwise empty landscape.

It was Captain Bridger, he could tell by the weathered skin of the arm and the very small sliver of uniform sleeve that he could see peeking out from the very corner of the wall. Relief was like a sunburst in his mind but then he turned his head again and that relief stopped short, dangerously close to dropping out completely.

Ortiz was moving forward, towards where Captain Bridger and Doctor Smith had hurriedly taken shelter, and somewhat messily from the looks of things. Lucas could easily imagine the Captain tacking the Doctor to the side and out of the way of the shot, using that small window of opportunity that had been given by—_what_? Brody? That had to have been it but Lucas had somehow managed to miss the moment itself as it happened.

"Captain!" Shouting like that probably wasn't wise, he knew, but he needed the older man to recognise that something was about to happen before he took action. In a slightly messy move of his own he lunged and seized the weapon Tony had been holding, hastily passing it from one hand to the other before thrusting it across the floor as hard and as fast as he could. With any luck it would bypass Ortiz altogether and reach the Captain, who could use it to—

A boot came down on the body of the weapon before it could finish its slide across the ground, hard enough that Lucas heard it grate harshly against the concrete, following that boot up and up until he saw that Ortiz was now looking back at _him_.

"Lucas." Henderson's voice was hushed and desperate and she grabbed at his shirt to try and pull him back but Lucas felt frozen, rooted to the spot, half-sprawled there after his lunge for the weapon which was now lying uselessly in the middle of the floor out of reach of everyone. All he could do was stare at Ortiz as the Sensor Chief turned towards him, his expression stormy and dangerous.

He had made a mistake. His intention had been to give Captain Bridger something he could use, either against Ortiz, which wouldn't have been ideal, or the woman who was so effectively manipulating and controlling him. Instead he had drawn the attention of both _his_ way. Just out of the corner of his eye he could see that woman staring at him as well. Something, some feeling deep down beneath the fear simmering on the surface, told him that she was smiling.

Ortiz came closer, those heavy boots carrying him forward in sure and steady strides, purposeful and predatory. Lucas' brain started to kick in, telling him to get away, get _back_, but the signals were panicked and confused and his shuffles were awkward and uncoordinated. One part of his brain was screaming at him to move while the other insisted that this man would never hurt him.

Almost as if on cue his throat started aching fiercely, his harsh breathing aggravating the bruised flesh and muscle beneath. Ortiz, or at least someone using his body, had _already_ hurt him once. Why not a second time?

"Ortiz—" The name caught on the way out as he shook his head, looking into the other man's eyes and trying to see something, _anything_, that he recognised.

But there was nothing.

"Ortiz, _please_."

From behind him, positioned protectively over Tony and still grabbing at Lucas' shirt, Henderson's voice joined his own. "_Miguel_!"

Nothing. No sign of recognition or doubt, not the slightest trace of reluctance or strain.

_Oh, God_.

And then Ortiz started to turn, suddenly and abruptly, and there was the thunder of footfalls moments before something collided with the Sensor Chief and drove him roughly, forcefully, to one side and all the way down to the ground. It was a hard collision, sloppy but solid, and Lucas couldn't help the sharp yell of surprise that burst out of him as it happened, so fast and unexpected that he almost couldn't process it at all.

Lonnie caught a proper handful of the back of his shirt then and managed to pull him back enough that he came out of his shocked stupor. Finally he was able to twist all the way around and scramble back to her side, to where Tony was struggling on the floor but no longer screaming. The woman, it seemed, had halted her attack on him, at least for the time being, no doubt as a result of all the sudden movements and turns of events. How she was able to concentrate on _anything_ was beyond him.

"Tony? _Tony_?" Lonnie was gently shaking him, her hands rested against his back, and he gave a low, tight kind of groan in response, his face downturned with his arms hugged loosely, exhaustedly, over his head.

Lucas took the opportunity to look past them and to where Ortiz and his surprise attacker had ended up, his eyes widening when he realised with no small amount of alarm that it was Captain Bridger himself. He was grappling with Ortiz, doing his best to keep the gun out of play, one of his hands wrapped around it and the majority of his weight pressing down on it to keep it from being raised and turned toward him or anyone else. Lucas could already tell that it was a losing battle, the Captain wasn't anywhere near as strong as Ortiz and it wasn't long before that became painfully clear.

The Sensor Chief let Captain Bridger focus all of his attention on that gun and effectively pinning it to the ground, taking advantage of that distraction and bringing his other arm up in a solid slam of a blow to the older man's face. Lucas heard the grunt of pain, and thought he saw a flash of blood, before the Captain was being forcefully shoved off and away, ending up on the ground on his back. Ortiz started to right himself, the smile on his face darkly satisfied and just _wrong_, but before the Sensor Chief could get all the way to his feet Captain Bridger had collected himself enough to lash out in a kick which connected with Ortiz's wrist. The blow was hard and sure enough that it had what Lucas could only assume was the desired effect: Ortiz's grip on the gun was dislodged and the weapon itself was sent skittering away across the floor, slipping just out of sight in the shadows somewhere.

For several tense and almost unbearable seconds Ortiz glowered down at the Captain, briefly cradling his wrist, before he stilled and half-glanced back over his shoulder. His breathing was heavy, his hair beginning to dampen from what looked like sweat, and Lucas thought he saw the slightest tremor in the man's body. But then he was backing up, putting space between himself and the small group gathered close to the ground, bringing himself closer and closer to Irina Dvornikov with every step he took. When he was only a little way in front of her he stopped, shoulders heaving visibly with the force of his breathing and the anger behind it.

He looked like a dog on a leash, mean-tempered and ready to snap, all spite and aggression and barely contained rage.

When Irina's head turned back towards the unit, Lucas couldn't help but follow her gaze even as Ortiz continue to stare at the four of them. He watched as Doctor Smith emerged from around the corner of the unit, where she had been concealing herself during the frenzy and flurry of activity that had taken only moments to unfold.

Beyond Irina and that superior and judgemental gaze of hers, Dagwood and the mountain of a man had come to hammering, devastating blows.

* * *

Violence was never Dagwood's first choice. It never had been, and it never would be. It had never come naturally to him either despite the fact that he had been created for just that purpose. The Prototype. Something hadn't gone right and so they had tried again, and then again and again, and they had ended up with those like Mariah and the baby, his little niece. Those like Mariah were violent and angry and didn't make sense to Dagwood. But the baby? Babies were always kind and soft and she had been human. Doctor Smith had said she was really _human_. Those who had been made by humans had made a human themselves. Dagwood had been amazed by that, still was, and just like his aversion to violence that was likely something that would never change.

But when things were frightening and his friends were in danger? Dagwood would fight. He didn't like it, he wished that he didn't have to do it, but if he could protect his friends then that was exactly what he had to do. That was exactly what he _would_ do.

Charging across the room to drive himself into the other big man had just felt like the right thing to do, especially after seeing Lieutenant Brody thrown like that. That had made him angry, and scared, and worried. Not many things made him angry, but people hurting his friends, or even just _trying_ to hurt them, would probably always push him to that point.

The man was big, easily as big as Dagwood himself, and wide, very strong and tough and when he crashed into the other big man it felt like he was hitting a wall. He felt the other man's feet slide though and that was good. If he could be moved then he could be knocked down, and if Dagwood could get him down then he could keep him there. That would remove the threat the big man posed and then his friends would be just that little bit safer.

There was a metallic smell in the air, thick and fresh, but before Dagwood could pinpoint it the big man landed a heavy blow in the middle of his back as he was driving them across the floor and that knocked the wind out of him. He grunted and staggered a little, but held on tight to the twin handfuls of shirt that he had grabbed when they had collided. When the big man tried to throw him off and away Dagwood tightened his grip even more and instead they both went swinging a little to the side. The big man was annoyed by that, he gave a growl of a sound like a wild animal, but even then Dagwood didn't let go. At least not with both hands.

Still gripping that one handful of shirt he reared back and threw a punch at the big man's face. Before the big man could recover he threw another one, and then tried to throw a third but his opponent got one of his own hands up and caught the blow mid-swing. Those fingers closed around Dagwood's fist and held on tight, forcing him to let go of the handful of shirt so he could use that hand as well.

That was exactly what the big man had been hoping for, and Dagwood realised that too late. A foot came up and hit him in the stomach in a hard kick that was also a shove. With another grunt as the wind was knocked out of him he stumbled backwards, losing his balance and falling to the ground. He heard the other man coming and managed to roll out of the way just in time to avoid another kick or a stomp or something else that would have hurt a lot. He didn't get all the way up off the ground though, instead throwing himself against the big man's legs to drive him over and down as well.

The big man gave a loud yell, a furious shout, and once they had both toppled Dagwood realised his arm was wet. When he drew back enough to try and land another blow he saw red on his arm and his momentary confusion as to where that red had come from gave the big man enough time to hit him in the chest, and then the face. Dagwood went down again, vision swimming and struggling to breathe after those strong blows.

He heard movement, a solid boot heel scuffing against concrete and he knew he had to get up. If he didn't then the big man would pin him down and his friends would be in even more danger.

They were counting on him. He couldn't fail them.

And so he forced himself to move, rolling across the floor and onto his hands and knees, giving his head a rough shake to stop it from feeling so jumbled. When he could see clearly again he saw the big man heaving himself back up onto his feet, but there was something else too. Something important.

He was limping.

And he was _bleeding_.

Dagwood remembered the red on his arm, how it had gotten there after he had tackled the big man around the legs. He remembered Brody doing something to the big man that had made him angry, it had made him shout, and then it had made him throw Brody. Brody had gone through that window and that wall and disappeared and then Dagwood had moved.

Brody had _hurt_ the big man.

Dropping his gaze from that angry face to that weak leg Dagwood saw it then. It was sticking out of the big man's leg, a little crookedly now, and it was all wet and red. Dagwood looked back up at the big man's face and knew what he needed to do. He wouldn't enjoy it, far from it, but it was something that had to be done. For his friends. To keep them safe.

There were shouts and other loud noises from nearby, voices he recognised, but he couldn't look to see what was going on. That would be dangerous, much too dangerous. He had to focus on the big man and how he was moving. Even as he pushed himself back to his feet he kept his eyes on the big man. If he looked away for even a second then the big man might come for him, charge at him, and that would be bad.

He had to concentrate.

The big man was breathing hard, Dagwood could see the way his large shoulders were going up and down along with his wide chest. He was angry, yes, but he was hurt too. It didn't matter how big you were, how strong, how tough, pain was pain and there was no ignoring it. Even Dagwood couldn't do that.

Back on his feet but ready to move again Dagwood watched the big man and the big man watched him. Something told Dagwood that they were a lot alike, he and this big man, even if he wasn't a Dagger and had been born instead of made. They were both strong and tough, they were both big and probably scared a lot of people whenever they walked into rooms. But that was all Dagwood saw that was the same, because he had some things that this big man didn't have. He had his friends, for one, and the _seaQuest_, but he had something else too. Something the big man didn't have.

_Patience_.

The big man gave a snarl and then he threw himself forward, running on his bad leg even with the pain and charging right at Dagwood.

Dagwood, who had patience, which this big man did not.

He let him come and he let him hit too, let the big man charge into him but he had steadied himself with one leg back so his weight was balanced and he didn't fall. He had tucked his upper body down to absorb the impact, feeling the power of it as the big man ran into him but he wasn't thinking about that, or anything that the big man might do. Instead he was thinking about that limp, that blood.

That knife.

Dagwood had one arm up and braced across the big man's broad chest, feeling his hot breath spill over his face and head, and with his other he reached quickly down and seized the handle of the knife. The big man realised too late what was happening and he tried to move but there was no time. Dagwood pulled on the knife, dragging it back out of the wound that Brody had made in the first place. Blood came out in a rush and a stream and a shout came out of the big man's mouth right along with it. All of its own accord his leg stopped holding him up and Dagwood shoved with his bracing arm to help the other man go. There was a moment where his big arms wheeled, grasping at nothing, and then he went down on his back. He went down hard.

The knife was dripping in his hand but Dagwood had no desire to use it. He could have, the opportunity was there, but the drive was not. It never even crossed his mind. Instead he stepped towards the big man and lifted one foot, bringing it down on top of that bloody wound and holding it there, putting just enough of his weight on it to keep the big man down and out of the way.

And he was going to keep hold of the knife.

* * *

She felt Evan go down as much as she heard him, as much as she saw him out of the corner of her eye. In her mind several curses spilled across the surface of that calm and composure she maintained at all times but on the outside she showed nothing at all. She didn't even look back to see how badly he was hurt. All she knew, all she _had_ to know, was that he was, and from the sounds of things he wasn't getting back up any time soon.

The fool. Bested by a _Dagger_, of all things.

Irina's disappointment was tempered by the sight of Miguel standing in front of her, shielding her body from any attack from the group on the floor. There was still a weapon over there somewhere and clearly Miguel was taking that into account, putting himself well and truly between her and it. It was impossible not to smile. She only had the one protector for the time being but she could have done much, much worse.

She became aware of other movement then, turning her head just enough in that direction to see Wendy Smith emerging from her hiding place, her actions slow and cautious like the meek little mouse that she was. Pathetic. Disgusting, really. It was such a shame that the gift was wasted on someone like her, someone who sought permission and forgiveness both and was so scared of what others might think of her that she always strove to be what everyone else needed her to be. Spineless and feeble, and an insult to the name psychic.

_Stop hiding behind your little friends, Wendy_, she told the other woman, fixing her with a level stare. _Stop __**hiding**__. Unless you want to watch them die, one by one._ She gave her head the smallest tilt to the side, towards that group off to her right, where Miguel's focus was fixed. _I'm more than happy to accommodate, if that's what you want._

"_No!"_ The mere suggestion chased pain across Smith's face like a flash of lightning. _"No, of course that's not what I want."_

_No?_ Irina quirked a brow. _Then forget want. Maybe that's what you __**need**__. _At the other woman's frown of despair and confusion she went on, _These people are weak, they're fragile, they're ignorant and blind and they fear us because we are __**better**__ than them. And yet you tie yourselves to them and all those weaknesses and fragilities. They make __**you**__ weak._ How could the other woman not see that? So disappointing.

"_No."_ Smith shook her head. _"No, they make me stronger."_ Irina let the other woman hear her bold, rippling laughter, watching as it chased a wince across her face. _"We psychics are meant to __**help**__ people, not hurt them. We're meant to use these gifts to protect them, even if that means protecting them from themselves."_

That time Irina laughed out loud as well as across their connection, practically sneering as she shot back, _According to __**whom**__? Who decided that we, the strong, must protect them, the weak? Why should we do anything of the sort when they consistently seek to undermine, control, or destroy us?_

Wendy frowned, shaking her head once again. _"That's not all of them."_

_But it is __**some**__ of them._ It wasn't a question. Irina had been using her abilities long enough that she didn't have to ask. She didn't need someone like Smith, someone so under the heel of her inferiors, to confirm that for her. And denying it would be nothing but a lie, and a terrible one at that. _You've seen it with your own eyes, don't deny it. You can't lie to me._ She tilted her head once again, and just as before, it was the small group of _seaQuest_ crewmembers that she indicated in doing so. _Even your own crew, your own __**friends**__, fear you. They fear what we can do._

"_Of course they fear it,"_ Smith shot back, and to her credit her voice was strong, full of conviction, more than Irina would have thought her capable of. _"Look what you're doing to one of their own."_

Irina didn't need to follow Smith's gaze, pointed as it was, to know who she was talking about, just as she didn't need to look at the man in question to know that he was looking a little worse for wear. What she had done, what these idiots had _forced _her to do, took its toll on even the strongest of minds and there was no getting around that. If she had had more time she wouldn't have been so aggressive, she wouldn't have needed to be, but she had had no choice but to roll the dice. All she could hope for now was that Miguel would recover. Enough of him, at least.

_He's not one of them anymore._ She watched as Smith let her fear and dread show, the very first hint of a shine in her eyes betraying just how close she was to tears. _And you know it. You've known that since before you even set foot in this building._ Irina smiled. _Haven't you?_

Smith swallowed, the motion exaggerated by the other woman's crashing and clashing emotions, and the first tear spilled free, rolling down her cheek. When she spoke, she did so aloud, though her voice was hushed almost to the point of a whisper. And that one single, simple word was all the more powerful for it. "Yes."


	34. Destabilise

Her despair was real, the despair that she knew Irina was picking up on with crystal clarity. There was no sense in even _trying_ to deny it, not only to herself but to the other psychic who had her pinned under her clear, keen, intelligent and knowing gaze like a butterfly beneath the point of a pin. She _could_ feel that the Miguel they all knew and loved, each in their own ways, was slipping away, more and more with every passing moment, and before long there would be absolutely nothing left of him to save. There would be nothing left to salvage from the ruins of his mind and all that would remain was the shattered and splintered remains, and this unrecognisable imitation that had been dragged, possibly kicking and screaming, all the way to the surface.

And it was _strong_, that persona, that identity. Wendy could feel the power of it as she stood there, the ferocity and fury of it, along with the pure animal drive to protect and defend the one who had released it.

What felt like a very long time ago now Wendy had heard someone theorise that they all possessed such a creature deep within themselves, all instinct and impulse, all the darkest whims and fancies that people bottled and caged and boxed away within themselves, pushing them deep, deep down to the very pit of their being where they would never see the light of day. They did that to keep themselves honest and true and compassionate, some with more ease than others, but the theory went that the better the person on the surface the more terrible that secret, subdued self.

As she looked at Miguel then she couldn't help but think back on that moment and realise with a detached sense of purely scientific intrigue that that person might just have been right. She was looking at the proof of it now, seeing it with her own eyes, and it was always hardest to deny even the ugliest of truths when that was the case. No matter how much she might want it, _wish_ it, to be false, how could she believe that now?

It was a sobering, sickening realisation to come to, and in the worst possible way, in the worst possible circumstances.

_What have you done to him?_ She turned her gaze back to Irina, trying to muster the same unwavering determination that the other woman seemed to possess in spades. The question had been rhetorical, and so she drove on before the other woman could respond, _You're killing him_._ You know that._

Irina's expression was harsh, severe, when she responded. _"I've done exactly what needed to be done, what you and your weak little friends __**forced**__ me to do."_ Her eyes narrowed. _"All you had to do was let it go, let __**him**__ go, and this never would have been necessary."_

_This is not our fault_, Wendy pushed back, fervently, taking a small step closer without even realising she was moving. She only recognised that she had done so when Ortiz's body stiffened, tensing in preparation to attack. Defend. _You __**chose**__ to do this to him, Irina. You know exactly what you've done, what you're still doing to him._ She frowned, shaking her head. _**Why**__ are you doing this? Why risk destroying him like this? To spite us? The UEO?_

But that wasn't it, Wendy knew. Irina's motives were not that childish, despite how they might seem to the others. Wendy couldn't decipher exactly what it was that was motivating the other woman to do what she was doing but she could discern that much.

Irina only stared.

Wendy stared back, reaching and pressing much as she had in that dark and endless expanse in Ortiz's mind. She saw the flicker of recognition and resentment on Irina's face when the other woman noticed what she was doing but Wendy didn't allow herself to be deterred. She pressed and reached until she touched the very edge of something, firmly enough that she could recognise it for what it was. The disbelief on her face was plain, and she made no attempt to hide it. _You want __**him**__ as well. _Once again she shook her head. _Even if it means destroying his mind in the process, you want to take him as well as the information you stole._

"_Liberated,"_ Irina correctly rather bluntly, almost dismissively. When she went on though there was more heat in her voice, even as she worked to reinforce the walls in her mind. But there was something wrong, Wendy could feel it. The effort wasn't as smooth and seamless as it had been before. There was a falter, a stumble, a slip of shaking hands. _"Why do you care? Men like him are a dime a dozen in the UEO. You and your precious captain can find yourselves another in no time at all."_

_If that were true,_ Wendy returned sceptically, _why would you be fighting so hard to keep him?_ She took another step, slow and measured. Once again Ortiz shifted his weight in response, his attention now fixed squarely on her instead of the group across the room to Wendy's left. _Why would you go to all this trouble to keep him if he was really so easy to replace?_

Because he wasn't, and they both knew that. Everyone in this room, save perhaps for the large man who had been until only moments ago ready to defend Irina with the same feral intensity as Ortiz, knew exactly how far from the truth that was. Miguel Ortiz, like everyone aboard the _seaQuest_, was one of a kind, rare and gifted and so very special and dear not only to her but to everyone else aboard that ship they all called home. He was one of them, part of their _family_, and they would fight to the bitter end to bring him back to them.

Wendy felt the other woman reaching and pressing in return and she too, like Irina, worked to build and strengthen and reinforce. She could feel the strain of it, like an actual burn in her muscles after too much physical exertion, but she kept on pushing. She had to. The fact that she could feel the other woman trying to gain access to her mind meant that there was a weakening, a significant drop in power and force, and Wendy suspected she knew why. All she had to do was look at Ortiz, glance towards Tony, and it was clear enough.

No matter how strong a psychic she was, everyone had their limits.

It was now or never. Wendy couldn't let this window of opportunity slam shut on her, on _them_.

And so she reached again, stretching to her own limits and beyond, pushing into the deep, deep darkness to find what she hoped and prayed was still there to be found.

* * *

"_Miguel?"_

It was so dim at first that he almost didn't hear it over the sound of his own ragged, strained breathing. Only when it came again, and then again, and then a fourth time, did he really hear it, but not only that: he _felt_ it too.

"Wendy?"

"_Miguel!"_

"_Dios mio_." The words came out breathlessly, disbelief and surprise making his voice thin as much as the running. He didn't know how long he had been running, or how far, but he had refused to give up hope and so he had kept going. Sooner or later the blackness would end and he would find something, _anything_, and that would lead to something else and something else after that. It had to. "Wendy!" It was as loud as he could make it in the hopes that that would somehow make her voice stronger as well.

The fact that it seemed to work surprised him as much as anything else.

"_Keep fighting, Miguel. Don't give up."_

"I wasn't planning on it," he called back. He was still breathless, the muscles in his legs burning and twitching in the beginnings of exhaustion. It had been a while since he had felt that. He couldn't remember how long. "What's going on?" Since hearing the Captain's voice there had been nothing else, not that he had been able to pick out in the expanse, and despite his efforts to keep it at bay the finest threads of fear had begun to creep back into his mind. Left unchecked those threads would grow in size and strength and before long they would take over completely. They would choke him.

"_You just have to keep fighting."_ Something about that response told Miguel that it would be too much to explain and she had precious little time. _"You can do this, Miguel. I know you can."_

As much as he appreciated the optimism and support it wasn't a tangible thing that he could use to find some way out of his exile. Prison. Whatever he wanted to call it he wanted to get _out_. Too much time spent here would be damaging, he sensed that, more than anyone could come back from. Eventually it would eat him up, piece by piece, until there was nothing left. It would destroy him.

Miguel didn't want to think about what would happen then, what that would mean.

"_You can find a way out,"_ Wendy called to him out of the darkness and Miguel could hear the belief in her voice, the conviction, but there was something else too. He didn't want to call it desperation but there was no other word for it.

"How?" If anyone knew it had to be her. Didn't it?

"_Only __**you**__ can decide that. Remember where you are, Miguel. Remember—"_

And then her voice was gone, replaced forcefully, thunderously, by another, but there were no words, no booming shouts of reproach or triumph. It was just _noise_, plain and simple, almost deafening as it flooded and filled the space and crashed in on him from all around.

Miguel couldn't help but fold down into himself, his hands clapping to either side of his head to cover his ears, his body crouching and hunching into itself. His own shout of pain and alarm was lost in the din, drowned out by that shapeless voice that continued to pour into the darkness, wave after wave of it, an unending torrent. Covering his ears did nothing, the sound was all around him. Miguel realised, with a cold sense of dread, that it was filling not only the space all around him, but _him_ as well. He could feel it _inside_ of him.

"_Stop_!" he bellowed into the dark, into the noise. The flood of sound swallowed his voice with ease. Miguel couldn't even hear it for himself, like his mouth was moving but no words were coming out.

Soon enough those words, soundless as they were in the face of such force and fury, were spilling out of him. It was begging and pleading and prayers the likes of which he hadn't uttered in years, his desperation and fear growing as the sound pushed and pressed and crashed into him from all around without reprieve.

_Keep fighting_.

It came from inside. Somehow, by some miracle, it could be heard over the thunderous roar, and it took Miguel far too long to realise it was not so much a voice as it was a memory. A recent one, too. So recent.

_Keep fighting. You just have to keep fighting. You can do this._

Who had said—

_Wendy_. She had said that. She had told him. She believed.

_You can find a way out._

How? _How_ could he do that? Not only was he lost and alone but now he was deaf to all but those remembered words, driven to the floor by a merciless flood of sound that he could not escape. How could he find a way out? He had been looking, searching, hunting, for he didn't know how long.

_Only __**you**__ can decide._

What did that mean? What did it _mean_?

Still clutching at his head, futilely covering his ears, Miguel unleashed a wailing cry. He didn't hear it. Couldn't.

_Remember where you are._

Where?

Where was he?

What—

_**Remember**_.

It was like a starburst, that clarity, a brilliant and almost blinding supernova of certainty and understanding.

Remember. He had to remember where he was.

_My mind. __**Mine**__._

"_**STOP**_!"

It ripped out of him, that one word, dragging on and on, raking his throat raw, but as that one unassumingly simple syllable stretched out into the black something miraculous and marvellous happened.

The din lessened, it quieted, and then, finally, _blissfully_, it stopped.

It _stopped_.

Miguel could hear. He could_ hear_. From his own rough and ragged and shaky breathing to the sound of his own palms dragging over his assaulted ears, he could _hear_. And it was _beautiful_. The laugh that spilled out of him was watery and weak, but it was real.

His palms hit the ground and he pushed, trembling all the while, feeling like he was lifting a colossal weight instead of his own body as he heaved himself up from the ground. At some point he had fallen, buckling all the way over onto his side, curling into a foetal position to try and protect himself from the onslaught. He hadn't even noticed. But it didn't matter now, as he worked his way up, panting all the while.

But why was he panting?

"It's not real," he gasped, closing his eyes, stinging as they were with unspent tears. Concentrating then, focusing, he drew in a breath through his nose, long and slow. And then he released it, doing so steadily and smoothly. The next breath he took was just as steady, just as smooth. He was no longer panting.

"It's not real," he said again, opening his eyes and looking around.

Did the darkness look—was it _less_ somehow?

"It's not real," he repeated, making himself say the words louder, with more force. "This is _my_ mind. It's my _mind_. Not reality." Not only did he say them, but he believed them, taking hold and keeping his grip firm. "I remember where I am." He was standing up straight, to his full height, sure and certain and growing more so by the moment. "And I decide the way out."

Somewhere, off in the distance and, at least for the moment, out of sight, something clicked.

It took him a moment but then he recognised the sound.

A lock.

Clicking. Turning. Unlocking.

Miguel took in a breath. Let it out. Did it again. "I can get out." He said the words steadily, smoothly, with as much confidence as he possessed.

And then he started to walk.

* * *

Lucas didn't know _what_ exactly was happening, only that _something_ was happening. In the end it didn't really matter, the specifics, only that the opportunity wasn't wasted. So it was that Lucas took his gaze from whatever that strange something was in the middle of the room, between them and the unit with the broken wall and shattered window, and started to scan the floor for the one thing he needed in order to help.

It was there, several feet away, thankfully a fraction closer to Wendy than to Ortiz and the Dvornikov woman, and so he felt little in the way of fear when he started to scramble towards it. In lieu of getting to his feet, an endeavour that felt far too time consuming in that moment, he went on hands and knees, essentially, using the toes of his sneakers to sort of scuff and shove himself along. It got the job done anyway, and he soon had his prize in his hands, hurrying himself back over to Henderson and Tony. The latter was still crumpled to the ground, looking for all intents and purposes on the verge of blacking out, occasionally making a low and sorry groaning sound, but Lucas took comfort from that because if nothing else it meant that he was still alive. Considering how he had been screaming not so long ago that felt like a lot. It certainly felt like something to be thankful for.

Captain Bridger had recovered from his sprawled position on the floor and joined them properly. "Lucas?"

He shook his head quickly, looking across to Dvornikov and Ortiz, and then over at Wendy. _Something_ was happening there, the two women staring at one another with unblinking focus and determination, but neither one looked at their best. It was the first hint they had seen of Dvornikov being any kind of unsteady, and if Lucas had to guess he would say that Doctor Smith was doing her best to take advantage of that. If the effort on the Doctor's face was any indication, though, they didn't have a whole lot of time. Whatever she was doing it was taking a lot out of her, and she couldn't keep it up for long.

"_Lucas_."

"I don't know, Captain." Really he wasn't sure what Captain Bridger was asking of him, but then he dropped his gaze to his computer and started working at it, going as quickly as he could. "I don't even know if this is possible," he said, a little harried, doing his best to concentrate on what he was trying to do. They weren't even sure if it was possible to disrupt the signal but if anyone was going to be able to do it then in theory he was the one best suited to the task. None of them had been expecting the sort of chaos that had unfolded since their arrival, to say the least, so it was something of a struggle to gather his thoughts and focus. But he was going to do his best.

* * *

"Henderson? _Henderson_."

It was the second, more forceful use of her name that got her attention, dragging it away from whatever was happening in the middle of the room and turning it instead towards the man who had come up to her side. Her hands were still on Tony's back and his struggles and writhing had basically ceased now. All she could feel was the rough rise and fall of his back as he breathed. Had he passed out?

But Captain Bridger was looking at her and she had to compose herself. "Sir?"

"Your weapon, Henderson," he said, meeting her gaze and holding it. "Where is it?"

"I—" For a moment she couldn't remember before she looked towards the unit where she had found Miguel. "It's in there, sir." The Captain had followed her gaze. "I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter," the Captain said, and he somehow managed to make the words sound understanding. Lonnie had no idea how he did that.

"Tony," she said then, and she looked down at him but then her eyes were scanning the ground close to him instead. "His was—_there_!" She had spotted it, a little _behind_ them somehow. It must have bounced a little when it landed, or perhaps when Tony had collapsed he had kicked it back there. It didn't really matter. She lunged for it, taking hold of it and instantly feeling a little reassured by the familiar weight and shape of it in her hand. Bringing herself back to her knees she looked to the Captain again, finding that the man was already looking at her.

"We're running out of time," he said to her, his tone serious and grave, and that reassurance she had felt only a moment ago began to fade. A chill started to creep through her in its place, starting in the very pit of her stomach and slowly spreading outward. "Henderson?"

"Yes, sir." She understood. She knew what he wanted her to do, what _needed_ to be done. Unfortunately that didn't make it any easier to face, let alone _do_. But even as her hesitations and doubts were bubbling through her mind, fighting to dislodge and disrupt that confidence she had managed to pull into place, she was rising from her knees and stepping away from the little group, the weapon held in her hands with only the barest shake in her fingers.

Once she was clear of the group, with Lucas working furiously at the device in his hands and Tony seemingly unconscious, the Captain's hand settling between his shoulders as he stood guard over the both of them, she brought the weapon up and levelled it on her target.

One shot was all it would take, but it had to be a good one. More importantly, she had to believe that it was the right thing to do.

Easier said than done, unfortunately. Her fingers started shaking a little more. Pulling the trigger was never easy, and it was never ideal, but sometimes there was no other way.

Lonnie looked down the barrel of the weapon at the woman who had caused all of this. And just like that all of her doubts, all of her hesitations, they all dropped away.

This _was_ the right thing to do.

Her fingers stopped shaking. She pulled the trigger.


	35. Crashing Down

Walking had quickly turned to running, the idea, the _knowledge_, that there was actually some way _out_ of here driving him to go faster, and harder, before that opportunity slipped through his fingers like fine grains of sand. But it wouldn't, he reminded himself, so long as he willed it to remain and persist. However long he needed it to be there that was how long it _would_ be there.

Because this was _his_ mind, and he made the rules.

For too long he had allowed Irina to do that, he had let her call the shots and dictate the parameters, the restrictions and boundaries. He never should have done that. He never should have allowed himself to be cowed by her attitude, her abilities, her displays of dominance and power. Through him she had been able to do terrible things, things she never should have had the opportunity to do if he had just resisted and defied and _denied_ her in the right ways.

How could he have been so blind? So ignorant? So _stupid_.

Others had paid for that mistake, and dearly. His best friend had almost lost his life, and now Captain Bridger, Doctor Smith, and there was no telling how many others were risking their lives for him as well.

Not just for him, he knew, but for the stolen data as well, that cloned information that could do untold amounts of damage if it fell into the wrong hands. And if it was up to Irina that was exactly where it would end up because those wrong hands would offer the most money for the sorts of things he had enabled, allowed, and _helped_ her to steal. All because of fear. Fear of what might be, fear of what she _could_ do, and after what had happened to Tim what she _could_ do.

Things she never should have been able to do in the first place. Things he never should have allowed.

But there would be time for shame and regret later. Now was the time for action, for determination and perseverance. Now was the time for escape.

The door, the one he had heard unlocking, was coming into view, he could make out the edges and the solid flat face of it. Some unsourced light was gleaming off the brass handle invitingly, promising escape and release, and all he had to do was reach it. All he had to do was take hold of it and twist.

That was when a sudden, blinding, inexplicable pain erupted through his right arm.

* * *

It happened so quickly that there was no way she would have been able to adjust her aim or even stop herself from squeezing that trigger just enough to release the shot. It _should_ have hit Irina side-on, knocking her right off her feet, down to the ground, and with any luck out completely, but at the last moment something blocked that shot, perfectly shielding her target and taking the force of it for themselves.

Miguel.

With a gasp of horror stopping up in her throat she watched as the shot caught him in the arm, the force of it slamming him back and around with a gruff sound that was partway between grunt and yell.

"Oh my God." That horror was filling her up inside, the idea that she might have seriously hurt someone she cared about, and dearly, and instinct had her lowering the weapon instead of lining up and taking another shot. Miguel's balance had been ruined by the impact and he had gone down to one knee, his body angled away from her so she couldn't see just how much damage she had done with the shot, and in falling that much he had exposed Irina once again.

Lonnie expected the woman's pale eyes to be turned on her, ready to unleash some unspeakable power, and pain right along with it, but as she watched Irina Dvornikov winced fiercely, staggered, and almost lost her own balance as if she herself had been hit rather than her hijacked defender.

_Why_—

And then it hit her. The woman had herself so tangled up in Miguel's mind that she had felt the blast as surely as if she _had_ been shot. Lonnie felt her lips part, her bottom jaw dropping in her shock, and of their own accord her eyes turned to Wendy whose focus had not wavered. If anything it had intensified.

Had she just given Doctor Smith the exact opening that was needed?

There was no way of knowing.

What she _did_ know, however, was that Miguel was forcing himself up from the ground, his breathing heavy and his face a mask of pain and anger and chilling intent. His dark eyes turned, partially veiled and shadowed by sweat-dampened curls of black hair, and fixed on her. Accusatory, resentful, and determined. So very determined.

"Lucas." It came out of her in a rush, a gasp, and she spared the briefest of glances in the teenager's direction. He was working furiously at the device in his hands, head bowed and eyes darting over the screen as his fingers flitted over the keyboard. "_Lucas_?"

"I'm going as fast as I can!" There was a fine thread of panic in his voice that she couldn't help but identify with.

She had only taken her eyes off Miguel for a second but in that time he had not only driven himself up from the floor but across it at alarming, frightening speed. As she turned her head he was practically on top of her and she couldn't help the cry of shock that sprang from her lips. There was no time to get the weapon up between them, no time to dart out of the way. There was no time to do anything other than try to brace for the impact as he drove himself right into her, knocking the wind right out of her and carrying her right off her feet.

They went down together, hard, Miguel and his superior weight and size on top of her. As her back hit the ground with painful, jarring force she had a flash of horrible, crippling clarity, one single, certain thought: he was going to kill her.

* * *

The pain had temporarily robbed him not only of his balance and his forward momentum but also his awareness. For just a minute he knew nothing at all, simply dropping away and winking out in the face of that shock, the sheer power of it. And then he was snapping back, returning to himself with a gasp and the knowledge that something had happened. Not only in here, in this space inside himself, but out there, in the real world. Something had happened to his _body_.

His arm hurt, and badly, almost badly enough that he couldn't move it and when he tried to put weight on it to push himself up from the ground he was rewarded with a sharp, biting burn that made him draw in a hissing breath through his teeth. Telling himself that it wasn't real didn't work that time, and as he reclaimed his footing and looked down at his right arm he saw it: there was an ugly line cut clean through the sleeve of his uniform, the edges dark and damp. Beneath the torn material the skin was bloody and chewed, almost. It was a hole and yet it wasn't, lacking the neatness of a bullet or a blade.

An energy weapon, he realised. One of the ones they carried as standard issue nine times out of ten.

Someone had shot him. But why? And who?

"Doesn't matter." Saying it aloud was pointless really, there was no one to hear the words but him, but in a strange way he drew not only comfort but strength from them. He lifted his gaze from the wound in his arm and focused once again on that door. It was coming back into focus, taking on a more solid form once again, as if in the brief time he had been floored by the injury it had wavered and lost some of its strength.

But it was back now, and he had to go through it. The pain in his arm could be ignored, if nothing else it _had_ to be. Gritting his teeth and forcing himself to focus, concentrate, he started forward again. He had to reach that door, and soon, before something else, something _worse_, happened to him. Or anyone else.

Captain Bridger hissed his name with urgency even as a cry that he recognised reached his ears. But he couldn't look up. He didn't dare. He might lose focus, or confidence, neither one of which he could afford to surrender for so much as a second. He heard the Captain's voice and gave his head an equally urgent nod and a rushed uttering of, "I know, I know, I _know_!"

They were almost out of time. He had to get through the last of the firewalls and guards and bring the localised network crashing in on itself. It didn't have to be finessed, there didn't need to be any style or grace to it. If he had to use a sledgehammer instead of a chisel then so be it.

Data flashed across the screen, blinking and streaming and his eyes followed it with the practised speed and single-mindedness that had come from years of work just like this. Legal or not it didn't matter, especially not now. What really mattered was that he could pick out what was important, what he needed, what he needed to scatter and _disrupt_, and hop from one stone to the next. And fast.

"_LUCAS_!"

He didn't respond that time as he saw it, seized it, pouncing on it like a cat on a mouse with a shapeless shout of anticipation and exhilaration that came out of nowhere all on its own. It was a rush, breaking through and manipulating a system, a thrill like no other, and even in such a desperate and frantic situation he couldn't help but feel it. It fuelled him, drove him on as he went down the rabbit hole, burrowing and driving further and further, down, down, down all the way to the treasure trove at the bottom.

Somewhere nearby there was the sound of an impact, flesh on flesh, and a grunt. He couldn't tell who it was. He couldn't afford to look.

_**There!**_

Lucas practically threw himself onto it, before it had the chance to slip away from him, and he went to work on it with the furious urgency of someone who had no time to do anything but hammer and claw and smash. Every trick he had was pulled out of the box and hurled at the thing, the heart of the network coming under a barrage of coded blows and strikes that took chunks out of it with all the grace and subtlety of a wrecking ball.

Off to his left, where he had heard that cry and that smack, there was a shout that became something not unlike a _roar_, an animal sound of struggle and anguish and fury.

And then something was colliding with him, a voice in his ear calling, "_Watch out_!" even as it drove him over, down to the ground, around and over again in a heap. Through it all he managed to keep his hold on the computer, practically clutching it to him as if his very life depended on it. And maybe it did. As he opened his eyes he saw Ortiz, or at least the thing that he had become, clawing at him from where he had landed on the ground right on the spot where Lucas himself had been knelt only a moment before. From behind the other man's bared, gritted teeth there came a sound like a snarl and Lucas momentarily lost himself in the wildness of those dark eyes as they fixed on him, _murderously_.

_Now, now, __**now**__!_

His own mind screamed at him and he snapped his gaze back down to the computer, watching the command box pulse like an alarm, both warning and inviting at the same time. And time was something he didn't have. _**Now**_. It had to be.

Ortiz's short fingernails caught and scraped at the concrete as he clawed his way closer, shoving himself messily and frantically with his boots. One of those clawed hands reached for him, snatching out at him.

Lucas hit the final command, desperately punching it in, right as those fingers caught tightly around his arm, the other hand reaching viciously for his face. Or his throat.

The computer in his hands released a series of rapid, pitched beeps.

Ortiz let loose with another howl.

* * *

She gasped. She couldn't help it. Another stagger almost buckled her right off her feet and down to her knees but through sheer force of will and stubborn determination she kept herself upright. Her breathing had turned heavy, almost ragged, and she could feel beads of sweat breaking out and sliding down from her temples.

It was like watching a rope bridge come apart. No, not watching, but _feeling_. The taut tension on the ropes as they frayed and snapped, as the boards started to give way around her, she could feel it all.

"No, no, _no_." It came out in a hiss, her eyes opening and fixing first on the damned doctor across from her before daring to dart to her right and the mess there. Right as she landed her gaze on the group, scattered in various places and positions across the floor, Miguel, the one she had torn roughly to the surface from deep down inside, unleashed a cry that was more animal than man. It filled the cavernous room and all the echoing spaces, carrying around them almost eerily, hauntingly anguished and despairing.

She felt him as he weakened and stumbled, as the boards beneath his feet cracked and crumpled. She felt him as those boards splintered and dropped away in useless shards, spilling him from the collapsing bridge before she even had a chance to reach for him.

And worse still, she felt Miguel, the _real_ Miguel, fighting to rise up from below. She reached for him instead, to shove him back down, to lock him away once more, but something blocked her path.

Some_one_.

"_**NO**_!" Her eyes darted back to Wendy Smith, the infuriatingly inferior insect that she was, and Irina bared her teeth like a wild animal, her rage bubbling up inside of her with such force, such intensity, that she could barely think at all.

The other woman was there in front of her but that wasn't all: she was between Irina and Miguel, standing with just as much unwarranted confidence and conviction, unwavering and maddeningly resolute.

She had gone too far too fast, pushed too hard too close to the end and now—

The ropes were snapping, giving way. Soon there would be nothing between her and the yawning abyss below.

Irina didn't have enough left in her to psychically batter the other woman back, drive her down, something she had done with such ease before. Damn them all. Damn _her_. The _bitch_.

There was nothing left to do now but throw herself at the sorry, rotten little wretch and destroy her with her bare hands instead. It wouldn't be long before she could claw together enough of her scattered and spent strength to do the job properly, hollowing her out from inside and leaving nothing but a broken shell in her wake, but for now? Her hands and her hatred behind them would do. They would have to.

With a snarl she threw herself forward.

* * *

All sense of composure and control were gone and all that was left was rage and desire, _furious_ desire to harm and destroy. Her eyes were wild and her hair had fallen from its tidy sweep and tuck. She looked half-crazed. She looked more dangerous than ever.

Wendy couldn't help the way her breath caught in her throat, a potent combination of fear and shock freezing her on the spot as the other woman came at her, all murderous intent and reckless abandon.

What could she do? What could _anyone_ do? Henderson and Piccolo were down, Nathan had Lucas in his arms, and Dagwood was pinning the unknown man to the ground. There was nothing, no one, between her and the madwoman that Irina Dvornikov had become.

_Oh God._

Something struck the woman from the side so suddenly, so forcefully, that it took her right off her feet. Wendy jumped, caught completely off guard, part of her still half-expecting the impact of the other woman's body as it drove into her even as she watched that same body go over and down, hitting the floor with what had to be bone-jarring force. She didn't even hear the short cry of surprise that had escaped her, or the shout of pain and shock from the woman who might very well have choked or beaten her to death only moments before.

Wendy turned her wide eyes to the right, past the staring and stunned form of Dagwood and to the shattered and broken window of that room that had once been an office. Standing just inside that ruined window with a weapon in his hands was Lieutenant Brody. _Jim_. He was breathing unevenly, raggedly, and even as Wendy watched his eyes started to blink rapidly, losing focus just as they turned towards her. No sooner had their gazes locked than he was collapsing again, weapon and all, and from within the room she heard the crunch of shattered glass and broken plaster as his body hit the ground.

She didn't wait to make sure it was safe to do so before she sprinted for the open doorway of that room and darted inside.

Jim wasn't the only one who needed help, far from it, but he was the one who would be getting it first.


	36. In the Wake

It was an undertaking to say the least, getting everyone out of the building and back to the launch. If conditions had seemed cramped during their approach, they were nothing compared to the return journey. It felt to everyone who was in any sort of state to appreciate such things as if every inch of space inside the launch was occupied, in one fashion or another, and there was barely room to move once everyone and everything was on board. Even those who had not been involved in the main conflict inside the building seemed worn and retired, and there was none of the low chatter that had been a steady constant during their first journey.

After assuring the Captain that she was more than fit to do so Lonnie had reclaimed her place at the helm. Every inch of her was bone tired, every fibre of her being crying out for rest, but the job that they had set out to do wasn't finished yet and so that would have to wait. _She_ still had a job to do, and once everything was squared away and appropriately stored she got them underway, heading directly for _seaQuest_.

She should have felt relieved, at the very least. She knew that. They had done what they had set out to do and by all rights they had emerged victorious, but all she had to do was glance back into the main body of the launch and any thoughts of triumph were thoroughly scattered. It didn't feel like a victory. Not even close.

Three of their own were unconscious, along with the woman who had caused all of this. Jim was badly hurt, Tony looked sickly pale and kept making low, wounded noises, and Miguel—

She didn't even know.

Silently she looked down at her right hand where it sat on the controls, lifting it a little from its place and balling it, before flexing it open again. There was a telling ache there, and if it hadn't been for the glove she thought that there might have been even more damage. As it was she suspected there would be bruising, and when there was time and opportunity, once their people had been properly seen to, she would get someone to check it out.

Striking someone she knew, someone she cared for, was an altogether new and thoroughly unpleasant experience for her. It had made her sick to do it, despite knowing that there was no other choice, not if she wanted to get out relatively unscathed, and the crazed and just downright _mean_ look on his face had told her that there was nothing else to be done. Pleading with him wouldn't have worked, there had been nothing of the man she knew to reason with. And so she had had no choice. She had _had_ to hit him. And so she had, balling her fist before lashing out as forcefully as possible, falling back on instinct rather than training because all the training in the world couldn't have prepared her for the situation that had unfolded in that old, hollowed out factory. She had hit him as hard as she could, as if her life depended on it, and the chilling, stomach churning truth of it was that it _had_. There was no telling what he would have done if she hadn't lashed out.

But that didn't mean she felt anything but wretched about it.

Docking was normally a busy, bustling time for any vessel but Lonnie went through the motions with a stiff sort of automation, her announcements of their status without any feeling or emphasis. Once it was done and they were secured she sat there in the pilot's seat feeling drained and heavy, not wanting to move, even as those behind her started to do so. She could hear the shuffling of feet and the jostling of equipment, low and short snatches of conversation that were little more than directions and agreements.

A hand touched her shoulder and turned her attention back, giving her a glimpse of the activity taking place there. Doctor Smith, despite her own exhaustion and God only knew what sorts of psychic hurts plaguing her, was busy directing the men on how best to offload their unconscious companions. When that hand on her shoulder squeezed lightly she turned her face up to look at the Captain, who was looking down at her questioningly.

"I'm good, sir," she told him, not really believing it herself even as she attempted to give him at least a shadow of a smile. He must have seen the effort, if nothing else, because he returned the expression faintly himself and gave her a small nod. Without a word he excused himself to help with the offloading.

Lonnie sat in her seat and watched, knowing that she should at least try to help but wondering if perhaps it wasn't best for her to just stay out of the way. What could she do, really, to help? What _had_ she done to help?

At the last moment before departing the launch herself Wendy turned to look at her. Silently, sympathetically, she showed the faintest impressions of a smile. It was sad, that smile, and held a certain sense of regret. She understood. Of course she did. Didn't she always?

It wasn't long before she was the only one left and the launch was an altogether different sort of quiet. Lonnie looked from the deactivated, dimmed helm to the vacant co-pilot's seat, back through the launch to the empty benches and open, unoccupied floor between them. There, towards the back, was a small, untidy pattern of coloured spots and splashes. Blood. Probably Jim's.

Her eyes stung only for a moment before the tears came in earnest, unbidden and unstoppable. All she could do was cover her face with her gloved hands and let them come.

* * *

He had been debating setting down the book and trying to get some more sleep when the sudden, unannounced rush of activity came pouring through the door. Had he really been so engrossed in the page open in front of him that he hadn't heard them coming? Or was he really more tired than he had realised? Either way all thoughts of the book and rest evaporated instantly as he registered what exactly was going on.

The team was back. The mission was over.

And it hadn't gone well, from the looks of things.

Tim shuffled himself a little more upright in the bed and watched as not one or even two but _three_ stretchers were wheeled in. And then, as if that hadn't been shocking enough, there came a _fourth_. With a muted sense of confusion and horror alike he looked from one to the next, identifying the people laid out in various states of—well, he didn't know what. Brody looked like he had fought a war single-handedly, Piccolo seemed unhurt but was most definitely out for the count, and Miguel looked pale, feverish, and just _worn_. And then there was the woman he didn't recognise but assumed had to be the one behind all of this. The only obvious reason for her condition was the tell-tale signs of an energy burn at her side, betraying the fact that someone had shot her, and on a fairly high setting at that.

As Tim watched, stunned by all that was unfolding before him, the staff got the stretchers situated and began preliminary evaluations of the patients. When was the last time they had seen so many at once? He couldn't help but wonder. Even in combat situations injuries were fairly minor, at least so far as he was aware, thanks in large part to the _seaQuest_'s resilience but also because of their rigorous training and drills. Everyone knew their place in a conflict, where to be and why, and even when they were caught off guard they usually had enough time to get somewhere safe and away from the affected areas before anyone could get seriously hurt.

All of a sudden he had the feeling, the sense, that he was very much in the way. Anxiety was fighting to take hold and shuffle him right out of the bed, right out the door, but common sense kicked in a moment later, thankfully. He hadn't been discharged, and so he would remain. If he was in the way then someone would move his bed. It really was as simple as that.

That didn't make any of what was happening any easier to handle. Watching people he knew, his friends, being treated for any number of injuries was just about the most difficult task imaginable then and he wanted to look away, _anywhere_ but at what was going on around him, but it was like the proverbial car wreck. He couldn't look away.

All of its own accord his hand, the one not still lightly grasping the book that had dropped to his lap, rose up and not only touched to the cross hanging around his neck but took hold of it fully. Under his breath, little more than the faintest whisper, he began to pray.

* * *

Not knowing what else to do with himself he had found his feet carrying him along the familiar path to the moon pool. Even before he stepped through the hatchway he could hear the light splashing of the water in the pool, telling him that its sole occupant was present. Something like relief flickered briefly within him but it soon guttered out, replaced all too quickly by the same sort of heaviness that he had felt ever since they had started back to the _seaQuest_. It was impossible to feel anything close to _good_ about what had happened, even if cracking through those defences and stopping that signal normally would have brought with it the usual sort of hacker's high that he had been chasing since he was a kid.

Some would argue that he was _still_ a kid. Right then, as he crossed the threshold and moved towards the pool and the comforting presence of the creature within, he couldn't help but actually _feel_ like one. Normally that was the last thing he wanted, the thing he avoided at all costs, fought against with every fibre of his being, but right then? He didn't even try to resist it.

"Lucas!" The dolphin's synthesised voice came through the speakers loud and clear with the sort of easy, effortless cheer that the cetacean was known for. The water splashed a little more enthusiastically as he propelled himself to the edge of the tank, obviously hoping for affection or an invitation to play.

Without a word, because none came to mind, Lucas leaned over and plunged his hands into the water to stroke them along Darwin's smooth form, over his head, his beak, down his back. The sleeves of his loose, open shirt quickly soaked through, left hanging all the way down over his wrists instead of being roughly rolled and shoved up to his elbows, and Lucas felt the almost irresistible urge to climb over the wall between them and slip into the tank as well.

Darwin nudged his beak against one hand. "Lucas sad?"

Of course Darwin knew. He always knew. "Yeah," he managed to say, his voice small and weary, the words thick with emotions he hadn't taken the time to sort through yet. "Yeah, Darwin."

"Why?"

The innocent question should have made him smile, normally it would have, but right then it was almost more than he could bear. Everything was dangerously close to more than he could bear.

And so he stopped resisting.

Without shedding a single item of clothing, footwear included, Lucas swung first one leg over the edge of the tank and then the other. Without hesitation or a second thought to how he might feel about it later, certainly not thinking about what the cold water would do for him physically, he slipped into the water. Almost instantly he was soaked to the skin, but he didn't feel it. Didn't notice. Instead he lowered himself further still and wrapped his arms around Darwin. The dolphin did not resist or argue, simply allowing himself to be embraced and held. And that was exactly how he remained for as long as Lucas needed him.


	37. Next Steps

"What the hell _happened_ out there?"

That was the question that had been burning in his mind ever since word had come from the launch that the team were on their way back. There hadn't been very much at all in the way of detail, and that had been frustrating, but something in the Captain's voice had told him not to ask for any specifics that weren't being readily offered. There had been a heaviness and a weariness there that he had rarely heard from the older man, and if he was honest with himself it had surprised him enough that all he had been able to think to do was confirm and sign off. Then the launch had returned and he had watched from the bay as everyone disembarked, albeit not all of them under their own power. He hadn't known what to say at the sight of three of their own being carried, obviously on their way to med bay, and when Captain Bridger himself had emerged the older man had given him the smallest shake of his head, as if to say _later_, and that was all.

Now it was later, and his mind was still reeling, full of unanswered questions and plenty of confusion to go right along with them.

"Jonathan, I hardly know what I'm going to write in my report." The words came out on a sigh, tired and worn, and he turned to look at the Captain where he sat at the table in his ready room, one elbow propped on the surface with his face half-hidden in the palm of his hand. It wasn't exactly a normal posture for the man, a man who was usually so confident and sure in his actions that it had come to seem as though he was never caught off guard.

"Forget the report," he returned, gathering together as much of his patience as he could, standing with his hands on his hips. Bridger lowered his hand and turned to face him, brows raised. That was understandable. Jonathan was by the book, he did things according to rules and regulations and always had. Hearing those words come out of his mouth must have been shocking to say the least. He waved one hand. "Just for now, at least," he amended, because it seemed to him as if the last thing the Captain needed was another thing to throw him off balance. "I just mean this isn't an official report. This is _me_. It's just the two of us here." And not knowing what had happened over there was starting to eat away at him. Badly.

Bridger sighed again, bringing his hand up once more but he didn't cover anything more than his mouth that time. After close on a minute of silence he removed his hand again and said, "You might as well sit down, Jonathan." He nodded at the closest chair. "This is going to take a while," he went on, "and I'm not even sure how to describe half of it."

That didn't exactly bode well for his understanding but it would be better than what he had right now, which was close to zero. All he knew was that Jim, Ortiz, and Piccolo had been carried off that launch, and everyone who had walked off under their own power had looked anything but triumphant. His imagination hadn't so much been running wild as it had come to a complete and utter standstill. There were too many blanks for him to fill in on his own.

He had no way of knowing that by the time Captain Bridger finished he would have more questions than answers.

* * *

As exhausted as he was by the time he had filled in his second in command, at least as much as he was able to, Nathan knew that rest was a long way off yet. There was still too much to do, too much to take care of, and while it was true that he had plenty of people under him whom he could trust to carry out those tasks it would be better for his peace of mind, if nothing else, if he did them himself.

First things first.

Reaching into the unzipped front of his uniform he retrieved the packet he had secured there, bringing it out into the light and setting it down, almost gingerly, on the table in front of him. He would need Lucas to check it over, of course, to see if there were any traces or signs that any of it had been copied or cloned at all, but that could wait. They would be holding position for the time being and he had every intention of sending another party over to perform a thorough sweep of the site where they had found Dvornikov and all that she had stolen from _seaQuest_. There was no telling what else they might find there within those walls, and conducting a search had been the last thing on anyone's mind once the dust had finally started to settle. Nathan didn't fancy the idea of letting the local authorities handle the clean-up, but he also wasn't about to ask any more of his people than they were capable of giving. They were just as exhausted as he was, if not more so, and needed time to recover from all that had happened.

He would give it a couple of hours at least.

There was a lot still to do between now and then. Wendy would have insisted that one of those things be getting some sleep but there was no time for that. Not yet. After, definitely, once he knew where they stood and what was coming, but until then there was just too much to take care of, too many necessary tasks to perform.

Unbidden the memory of Jonathan's face during the recounting of recent events drifted to the forefront of his mind and became close to impossible to shake. It lingered there, that expression of muted disbelief and barely-contained shock, even as he keyed up the command that would put him in contact with the bridge. On his vid screen a small overlay of the officer on duty at Communications popped up. "Yes, sir?"

"Get me General McGath."

"Aye, sir." And the overlay screen winked out, shrinking and then closing automatically, leaving him once again alone with his thoughts. There might not be time to properly gather and collect them before he was put through with McGath but he knew that delaying _this_ particular inevitable was a bad idea, plain and simple. The Secretary General had been generously patient with him during all of this, especially after what had happened at Renford Station, and it was well past time to inform him of the situation. Every aspect of it. Even now that it was over and done with, at least for the most part, Nathan couldn't bring himself to feel in any way relieved, and he certainly wasn't anything but reluctant to tell his superior officer about what had been happening on board his boat.

McGath wouldn't be happy, to say the least, but there was nothing to be done for it now. Nathan had made his decisions, given his orders, and all there was to do now was face the consequences, whatever they may be.

* * *

Giving the order to keep Irina Dvornikov under heavy sedation came easily, all things considered. Normally it wasn't the sort of thing that she would condone, let alone do herself, but taking into account all that they, as a crew, had been made to endure thanks to this one woman and her considerable power, it was an easy call to make. Her own reservations were effortlessly put aside and it was for the good of all that she did so, because there was simply no other way to ensure the safety of everyone on board. There was no telling what sorts of damage Irina might do if she regained consciousness, and with it her psychic abilities, and Wendy wasn't going to take the risk.

She could be treated while under sedation, naturally, and if nothing else it would actually be much easier to do so if she wasn't moving around and causing trouble by resisting. Lieutenant Brody had done what was necessary in order to stop her, even if it hadn't been ideal, and Wendy couldn't fault the man for his actions. She would be sure to tell him so, if the need arose, but looking around med bay at all the staff and patients she suspected that it wouldn't. James Brody would not regret what he had done, not if it had spared anyone else from further harm, and she for one was particularly grateful for his intervention.

There was no telling what Irina would have done if she had gotten close enough to lay her hands on her, and Wendy had been unashamedly terrified of what might happen. She had seen for herself just what the woman was capable of, but even with that first-hand knowledge she couldn't have guessed just what damage might be done physically by the other psychic. At the end of her tether and with no other options available to her she might have strangled Wendy, or smashed her head against the ground, or—

There was no use thinking on it now, dwelling on what might have been. It was over, done with, and the worst of the danger had passed.

As soon as the other woman had been stabilised Wendy had called not only for close observation and that constant state of sedation, but also restraints. Perhaps that was overkill, some might think, but Wendy didn't believe so. It was just one more precaution that they could, and _should_ take against a very dangerous and unpredictable enemy.

Nathan would decide what to do with her, ultimately, but Wendy had her doubts about the outcome, about what would become of what was, hands down, the most powerful psychic she had ever encountered. Keeping her under sedation while she was in custody aboard the _seaQuest_ was one thing, but could they morally justify doing so on a more long-term basis? It reminded her too much, bitterly, of Charlie Ross and all those other poor people at Aleph Colony. Coma patients every single one of them, yes, but cut off from the world and isolated beneath the surface of the ocean. Discarded. Abandoned. Forgotten. It didn't seem right.

But what else _could_ they do with someone as dangerous as Irina Dvornikov? Incarceration was out of the question, naturally, thanks to her psychic abilities, the fact that she would be able to coerce anyone, _everyone_, into releasing her back into the general population. And there was no way to shut off a psychic's powers, at least not that she was aware of.

Wendy sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose before rubbing first one eye and then the other. It was an impossible problem with no solution that she could see, at least not one that she personally would be able to make peace with. She turned her gaze down briefly to the woman in question, thinking that she looked pale, yes, but disarmingly beautiful, and most importantly, _normal_ in her current state. She glanced across the room to another one of the beds and frowned. It was no wonder, really, that Miguel had been taken in by her in the beginning, and Irina had been counting on that. She had to have been. It had been cruel, really, and underhanded. More or less so than the psychic manipulation that had followed? Wendy couldn't decide.

Moving away from the woman's bedside she crossed the room to Miguel's instead, checking the monitors and their readouts, before retrieving her penlight from her pocket and performing another quick test for his pupillary response. The same sinking sensation she had felt during the previous tests came over her again and she flicked off the light before returning it to the breast pocket of her white coat.

Nothing. No response.

Lifting one hand she laid it lightly over his forehead, a soothing touch, before stroking it back over his hair. "Come back to us, Miguel," she whispered, broadcasting the words in an echo with her mind as well, hoping beyond hope that he would hear her. Wherever he was, however far down he had been buried, she hoped that he could hear her and know that he wasn't alone. Not anymore. Never again.


	38. Deep Breath

"Long story short? He's in a coma."

"How about long story long?" Tony was out of bed, though he had at least followed medical advice so far as taking it easy went. He spoke from his seat in the corner, where he felt tempted to try and curl up and fall right back to sleep. His head was already pounding and listening to any sort of medical mumbo jumbo was bound to make it worse but he had already decided he would rather know as many of the details as possible. The nitty gritty, at least, the things that mattered. As a result of the attack that woman had unleashed on him back in that building he had missed a lot of what had happened and he was in no rush to miss anything else.

Doctor Smith gave him one of those looks that told him she was mustering some extra patience in order to deal with his request, and he gave her as sincere a smile as he could muster, along with a single-shoulder shrug by way of apology. He wasn't trying to yank her chain or push her buttons. They would all appreciate the details, he was sure, and from the look on the Doctor's face he figured she couldn't help but agree. She had probably only been summarising to try and save time, though what they might otherwise be in a rush to do was well beyond Tony.

With a glance towards O'Neill, as if checking to see whether or not the Lieutenant was up for it, Doctor Smith drew in a breath and said, "All right." She looked around at the faces of those gathered in med bay, dotted around in various places where they could stand or sit out of the way of any routine back and forth by the staff, though Tony had noticed that they were making themselves scarce for the time being. They were probably worried about imposing, or overhearing something they shouldn't. Tony didn't really see what the big deal was, especially now that the worst of it seemed to be over and done with, but it was probably more about habit than anything else at this point. Seeing members of the senior staff like Captain Bridger and Commander Ford together somewhere other than the bridge, and obviously in discussion, probably told them to keep their distance.

"From what I can tell," Doctor Smith went on, "he _is_ in a coma, but—" There was a moment of hesitation. "It's unlike anything I've ever seen before, honestly." She looked around once again, reminding Tony of a teacher checking that everyone in the classroom was paying attention. "I can't be sure but I believe his consciousness, his _real_ consciousness, is trying to work its way back to the surface."

They all knew what she meant by that whole _real_ remark. Tony wouldn't be forgetting that mean look on Ortiz's face any time soon, that was for sure.

"So why is he in a coma?" Henderson asked from her place at the foot of O'Neill's bed, where she had perched herself carefully. O'Neill had shuffled his feet well out of the way to enable her to do so. "Now that that thing has been disrupted, can't he just—" She made an upward gesture with one hand.

"That's just it," the Doctor said. "I think it might have been the signal, and the disruption of it, that's delayed the whole process."

Lucas was frowning. "Are you saying that disrupting the signal made it harder for Ortiz to reclaim his own body?"

With a small shrug Doctor Smith said, "Honestly? All of this is just guesswork on my part. Nothing like this has ever been documented, and you said yourself that the technology never got past the prototype stage, and it wasn't widely tested." At that Lucas rested back in his chair, giving a conceding nod. "Either way it's not your fault that this happened. You did exactly what had to be done." She waited until the teenager glanced up at her so she could give him a soft smile, and then went on, "It's possible that the situation might improve once the device has been removed, but again, that's all speculation."

"You haven't removed it yet?" Ford asked, a little incredulously.

"No," Doctor Smith told him matter-of-factly. "I'm not a surgeon, Commander, and even if I was I would need to be absolutely certain that I wasn't going to do even more damage by removing it."

"Well you can't just leave it there," O'Neill said, sounding a little concerned, almost as if some part of him worried that that was what might happen.

"No, of course not." She gave him a small smile, one which faded quickly. "But it was inserted in the back of his neck, and any sort of surgical procedure in that area is delicate."

Tim frowned. "And dangerous."

The Doctor gave a small nod. "Yes."

"So," Ford sighed. "Like you said: long story short, he's in a coma."

"Yes." Doctor Smith sighed as well. "On top of that he has a hairline fracture through his jaw, the energy burn to his arm, and some other bruising. He'll be sore for a while when he wakes up."

Tony noticed she used _when_ and not _if_. Maybe that was for the benefit of those like O'Neill, but he figured it was probably more to do with Doctor Smith's refusal to be anything but optimistic. He had noticed that about her early on. It was a good trait to have, especially in situations like what they were dealing with now.

"He has a fractured _jaw_?" Lonnie looked a little pale. "I didn't—"

Doctor Smith shook her head. "I don't think it was you. Or Brody, for that matter." She glanced in the direction of the Lieutenant, who was still unconscious. "It's much more likely that it was Irina's companion who caused the damage."

"What _about_ Brody? What's his condition?" Ford had followed her glance towards the Security Officer, turning back to her in order to ask the question.

"He has a fair amount of bruising, like Ortiz," she said, with a weary sounding sigh. "We stopped the bleeding in his shoulder, and the various other cuts he sustained from the broken glass. He has a mild concussion, nothing too serious but we're keeping an eye on it all the same." She met the Commander's gaze with her own. "He'll be out of commission for a little while, but it could have been a lot worse."

As in that guy could have killed him. Tony knew that was what she meant, and from what he'd seen of the guy it wouldn't have been too difficult either. It was a good thing Dagwood had been on hand to take him down or they might not have stood a chance. Between that kind of formidable physical power and the Dvornikov lady's psychic abilities they would have been well and truly out of their depth, especially with Ortiz effectively turned against them at the time.

Captain Bridger spoke at last, sighing as he leaned forward in his seat before saying, "Well, the good news is that we have Irina Dvornikov and her associate in custody, and we retrieved the stolen information."

"And it wasn't cloned, copied, or transferred in any way," Lucas interjected from his seat, sitting back in his seat to the point of slouching, though Tony suspected it was more to do with tiredness than anything else. "In fact, it looks like she never even accessed the information on the drives." Brows raised he shook his head with a small huff that might have been a laugh. "All that effort and she didn't even look at it."

"She was confident she had exactly what she needed," Bridger said, looking over at the teenager.

"Confident? More like arrogant." Ford had his arms crossed over his chest, a disapproving expression on his face.

"That too," the Captain agreed, "but one doesn't necessarily mean the other, not in all cases." He glanced up at the Commander. "Someone with her level of power had every right to be confident." Ford didn't look like he agreed, at least not completely, but he didn't argue.

"So what do we do with her now?" Henderson glanced over to the bed where the woman in question was lying, unconscious and unaware, or so they all hoped. Tony felt the slightest chill trickle down his back at the idea that she might be even the slightest bit aware of what was happening now. He had had her in his head once, and he never wanted anything like that in there again.

Maybe when things had calmed down, _really_ calmed down, he would ask Doctor Smith if she could teach him to block things like that out of his head. Even the smallest defence was better than what he had now, which was essentially nothing at all. He might not have been truly psychic like Doctor Smith, or the sedated woman, but he had latent potential. Apparently. Surely he could learn how to protect himself if nothing else.

"That's the question," Bridger said, with another sigh. "General McGath is consulting specialists in psychic phenomena in order to try and figure out what can be done." With a glance at Doctor Smith he said, "There was talk of keeping her sedated indefinitely—" he held up a hand to cut off the Doctor's protest, "—but I argued against that. However, considering what she's done and what she's capable of, I can't guarantee that my word on the matter will carry much weight."

Doctor Smith crossed her arms, though it looked more like she was embracing herself, searching for some kind of comfort, compared to Commander Ford's no-nonsense, all-business posture.

"There's not a lot else that _can_ be done with someone like her," the Commander added, shaking his head, giving the sedated woman a brief glance over his shoulder. "Prison, even maximum security, is out of the question. What else does that leave us?"

"We could give them aliens a call, see if they wanna take her off our hands." Tony propped his elbow on the closest flat surface, which just so happened to be the small table beside O'Neill's bed. He went on to lean his head against his balled fist, and even though the angle wasn't particularly comfortable he still felt as though he could fall right to sleep if given the opportunity.

"Funny, Tony." Lucas didn't sound amused. Not in the slightest.

"Even if that was an option," Bridger said, "I wouldn't be willing to subject any potential allies to that sort of trouble."

"There's no way to—" O'Neill cut himself off, his face screwed up just enough to give away that he was struggling to find the words he wanted to use. "Shut it off? Her powers, I mean."

Tony couldn't help himself, even if he wasn't setting out to give the other man a hard time. "What, like an off switch?"

"Well, _no_." O'Neill sounded frustrated.

"Not that I'm aware of," Doctor Smith interjected, before the two could start a real pointless back and forth. "But it's possible that General McGath's specialists might know something that I don't."

Bridger looked at her. "But you don't sound happy about the possibility."

"Should I?" She raised her brows, and then shook her head, letting out a long breath. "It's just the idea that someone out there might have some way to deactivate a psychic's powers, potentially without their consent—" By way of conclusion she hugged her arms around herself that little bit tighter and shuddered visibly.

"No one would do it to someone without their consent," Ford said, though he sounded unconvinced. "Surely."

Tony took his head off his hand. "Maybe you wanna talk to Ortiz about consent before you say that, Commander." Taking his elbow from the edge of the table, he added, "Once he wakes up, that is."

* * *

The oppressive, all-consuming dark had prevailed once again, smothering and swallowing everything and leaving it all numb and blank and void. Time lost all meaning, and sensation slipped away, along with any despair or frustration or anger at his progress being stripped out of his grasp right when he was on the verge of something real. It was hours before he came back to any semblance of self but it could have been mere seconds, or a long stretch of years. He had no way of knowing.

At first he didn't know what it was that had brought him back out of that oblivion, leaving him lying, without any desire or motivation to move, looking up into nothing at all. Nothing above, nothing below, nothing around him at all. No sound, no smell, no—wait.

The faintest frown creased his brow and he strained to listen, going so far as to close his eyes in order to give his ears more of his focus to work with. For a while he lay there, listening for what seemed to be nothing at all, until the faintest flicker of _something_ reached him from out of the black. Miguel kept his eyes closed, listening again, listening still, breath held and every fibre of his being tensing in anticipation.

"_Hey, Miguel."_

A laugh tumbled freely, almost desperately, from his parted lips and he opened his eyes, realising after a few moments that his vision was blurred by tears. Relief? Possibly. Whatever had caused them didn't matter, as he rolled over, first onto his side and then his front, hands down to the ground in order to push himself up, up, and further still until he was rising from his knees all the way to his feet.

Once up he listened again, waiting. He closed his eyes, and continued to listen. Waiting. Waiting and hoping.

"_You just—you really need to wake up."_

Another one of those breathless laughs spilled out of him and his knees went weak for a moment, just a moment, before he scrubbed his hands over his face and pushed his hair back from his brow. For a few seconds he held it back, fingers raked into it, drawing in a breath, before he turned and looked to the distance. Into the black. As he stood there with his hands pushed into his hair he recalled what he had seen there, growing closer and closer as he had drawn nearer and nearer. He recalled the size and the shape of it, the colour and the texture he had been able to make out as he had approached it. He recalled the way the light, spilling from some unseen and unknown source, had gleamed off the polished brass of the handle.

And then there it was again, simply appearing out of the black as if carried on some sort of mist or smoke, drifting and fading into being out of nothing at all.

Miguel slid his hands from his hair, for a moment barely daring to believe what he was seeing before he heard those words going through his mind once again. _You really need to wake up_.

They were right. He did.

And that was exactly what he was going to do.

* * *

Piccolo's comment about consent had taken all the air out of the room, it had felt like, and their somewhat unconventional meeting had broken up shortly thereafter. On the one hand Tim had been glad. All the discussion about what-ifs and other vague but far from promising possibilities had started to sour his stomach and by the time everyone had started to filter out he wouldn't have been surprised to find out that he had paled by a few shades.

The idea of that woman back on the loose was sickening, to say the least. And the idea that Miguel might never recover from what had been done to him by that very same woman? Tim didn't have the words for how that made him feel.

With the Captain and everyone else gone from the room Doctor Smith had made one last check of vitals and whatever else she was keeping an eye on with her patients before excusing herself. Tim had wondered if she was going to get some rest for herself, something she had recommended for everyone else, but something told him he would be seeing her again before long. She had probably gone to get something to eat, or, failing that, something to drink at the very least.

That meant Tim was alone. Or, more to the point, he was the only one awake.

Moving wasn't really recommended yet, he had been told, but after checking what he was attached to and just how mobile said attachments were he wondered what the harm could possibly be. So long as he was careful, and wasn't up and about for long, surely he would be okay. He had gotten through the worst of it, after all, and in the grand scheme of things he had gotten off relatively lightly. It was possible no one else would see it that way, he knew. Being stabbed was hardly something that most would consider light or mild, but in Tim's mind that was how he saw it, at least compared to what Miguel had gone through. And then there was Jim, who had certainly looked better.

Getting out of the bed was actually a fairly easy task, once he figured out how not to tug or knock his IV pole over, and once he was on his feet, thankful for the simple slippers that had been set down beside the bed, he made his way cautiously and quietly across the room. Subconsciously, a little nervously, he adjusted his glasses as he did so, looking around the room once he reached the bedside he had been intending to visit.

His friend looked paler than normal, a fact made that much plainer by the discolouration of bruising across his face. It was worse on the left side of his face, especially down low around his jaw and the bottom of his cheekbone, and Tim frowned, recalling what Doctor Smith had said about the fracture. It could have been worse, they all knew that, but Tim found it difficult standing there at the side of the bed to feel anything other than miserable and concerned. This man was his closest friend, someone who had started out as a colleague, a crewmate, but had become so much more than that over the time that they had served together aboard _seaQuest_. It was difficult, to say the least, to see him like that, and to know what he had been made to go through.

"Hey." All things considered it felt like such an absurd thing to say, pointless perhaps, and it didn't really make him feel better but Tim wasn't doing it for his own benefit. Doctor Smith had admitted that she didn't know exactly what was going on, or how to fix it, but she _had_ said that she believed Miguel's consciousness was trying to resurface. Surely talking to him couldn't do any harm. So he said again, with a little more conviction, "Hey, Miguel." He felt less absurd that time. Much less, actually. "I know you probably can't hear me," he went on, finding that once he had really started it was actually easier to keep going than it was to just stop, "but I wanted to give this a try. I wanted to try _something_, I mean. I haven't been able to do anything else so far, and, well—" He cut himself off. Now wasn't the time for self-deprecation. It was the sort of thing that Miguel would normally pull him up on, certainly, but in that moment it didn't feel like the right path to take. It felt selfish, and this wasn't about him.

"Anyway." He paused to clear his throat. "We're all worried about you. And we miss you." It was the sort of thing that some of the others on board, namely the hard-core military types, would see as unnecessarily soft or emotional or something else along those lines but Tim had never seen anything particularly _wrong_ with sentiment. There was a time and a place for it. That was all. "It's not the same around here without you." He tried for a smile but it didn't feel very convincing. Far from it, actually. Adjusting his grip on the IV pole at his side he frowned and looked around the room, before settling his gaze once again on the face of his friend. "You just—" He had to take a moment to find a way around the sudden lump that had formed in his throat, one that had snuck up on him out of nowhere. "You really need to wake up."

He needed to get back to his own bed, he knew, and standing there with what he had said hanging in the air, seemingly unheard, he realised he was all out of things to say. So he would head back to bed, where he really ought to be by the time Doctor Smith returned from whatever errand she was running, but one last compulsion overcame him. Much like the words that had spilled out of him he found it was a compulsion that he just couldn't deny, and so he allowed himself to raised one hand and set it down on top of Miguel's where it rested on the bed at his side.

Tim was just about to turn and walk away when the faintest movement froze him in place, rooting him to the spot. He stood there, staring, not daring to believe it and more than halfway towards convincing himself it had been his imagination when it happened again.

Miguel's hand was moving.


	39. Unforeseen

The door opened with little resistance, certainly no more than he would have expected. That wasn't really true, of course; he had been expecting, or rather dreading, a great deal of resistance. Refusal might have been a better word for it. After all that had happened in however long it had actually been it wouldn't really have surprised him one bit. That was the rather sad truth of it, how much of an impact it had had on his usually unwavering optimism.

But it _did_ open. The handle twisted under his touch, as it should have, and the jamb released. When he gave the door a nudge, it swung inward without so much as a squeak. For several seconds all Miguel could do was stand and stare at it, disbelieving, at least until the relief set in, quickly followed by the determination. It was once again rearing its head and reasserting itself, driving him to step forward and through the doorway, crossing the threshold, and as he did so a set of steps came into being, practically melting out of the darkness and into corporeality.

He watched them take shape and then wasted no time at all in approaching them. Without so much as a shred of hesitation he lifted one foot and set it on the bottommost step. It held, supporting his weight easily. He took another. And then another. After that it was a challenge to keep himself from running up, _sprinting_ even, forcing himself to take his time. Just in case.

In case of what? He couldn't even begin to imagine. But after everything, after all that he had experienced and endured so far, it couldn't really hurt to be cautious.

Up and up the steps went and Miguel half-expected the muscles in his thighs to start complaining after a while but they didn't even so much as twinge. So he kept on climbing, glancing back only once to see that it was a bottomless stream of steps behind him. How many had he climbed? How many more did he still have to climb? Looking up and ahead it was impossible to tell. So he kept on climbing.

As he went the air around him seemed to change. It was almost like it was becoming thinner, not to the point where it was becoming a strain to breathe comfortably, but more like it was less oppressive than it had been before. Miguel hadn't even noticed that the air had seemed thicker down there, wherever he had been, but now that he was climbing out of it he knew that to be true. How he knew that he couldn't even begin to work out, but he could feel it in his bones, the truth and certainty of it. He just _knew_. That knowledge drove him on, upward, higher and higher, the air becoming clearer and freer still, filling his lungs more smoothly and easily.

Still he forced himself to keep from running, forced himself to take his time. _Just in case_.

When at last a platform came, an end to the previously endless flight of stairs, it caught Miguel off guard. He lifted his foot to take another step and ended up stumbling a little, catching himself after a moment and giving a breathless sort of laugh, a touch self-deprecating but more relieved than anything. Even now though, after climbing God only knew how many stairs, there wasn't even the slightest ache in his legs.

It was as he was lifting his head from looking down at his own legs and feet that he noticed something. Something odd.

A reflection. His own, more to the point.

Miguel frowned, confused, and noticed immediately that that frown was not replicated on the face staring back at him.

_Not_ a reflection.

And that was when it lunged at him, surging forward and reaching to grab.

* * *

Wendy rounded the corner as quickly as she could without risking losing her footing, catching sight of O'Neill immediately standing beside Ortiz's bed with his IV pole grasped in one hand with the other rested atop that of his friend. There was a disbelieving look on his face, the slightest shake moving his head back and forth, and even before she had entered the room properly he was saying, "His hand. It keeps moving."

Later she would have words with the Lieutenant about being out of bed before being cleared to do so but for the time being she had other concerns. She moved right up to the side of Ortiz's bed and checked the monitors, looking for any changes, finding them in the slightest elevation of his heartbeat. Not unusual, she knew, and she withdrew her light from her pocket to once again check for his response. Carefully she lifted one eyelid and then the other, shining and then removing and then shining the light again right into the Sensor Chief's pupils, watching keenly for even the slightest change. But there was nothing. Still no response.

She lifted her head and looked at O'Neill, finding him looking right back at her, obviously watching her. "What?" he asked, with no small amount of urgency.

"There's no change," she said, frowning, before she looked down the Lieutenant's arm to where his hand was laid over Ortiz's. "It's still happening now?"

O'Neill's response was a nod, but she noticed he didn't move his own hand to show her, almost as if he feared the movement would stop if he pulled back. So she raised her own and set it on the hand closest to her, on her side of the bed. And she waited. "Oh my God." The words sprang from her lips the second she felt the movement, twitching of muscles and discernible shifts of his fingers beneath her touch. She looked first to O'Neill and then to Ortiz's face. There was no change in his expression, not even the slightest shift. "I don't understand it." And she wasn't afraid to admit as much.

"What's going on?" O'Neill asked her, and when she looked at him, on the verge of repeating her previous statement, he was already shaking his head before turning his gaze pointedly to the head of the bed. "I mean in _there_. What's happening?"

Wendy followed his gaze. Of course. That was the only explanation, surely. She glanced back to O'Neill only briefly before she shifted her weight, keeping her hand where she had laid it over Ortiz's before taking her other and resting it across his forehead. As she drew in a breath, slow and deep, she closed her eyes.

At first there was very little but a kind of steady, dark silence, but after a short while she felt it, in trickles and drops to begin with before it came in rushes and waves instead. Surprise and disbelief, defiance and determination, resolution, denial and frustration. And _anger_. Such hot, fierce, _biting_ rage, something that just didn't belong in the man between them, something that didn't make any—

"Oh my God." And her eyes opened, snapping to O'Neill's concerned face instantly. Horror was creeping through her veins, icy and ominous and gaining speed and strength. She was shaking her head without realising it, looking down at Miguel where he lay in the bed, unmoving save for those twitches and jerks in his hands.

"What is it?" O'Neill asked her, fear slipping into his voice. "_What_?"

Without taking her eyes from Miguel's face she answered Tim. "He's not alone in there."

"_What_?" O'Neill sounded incredulous, stammering for several seconds before he found his voice again enough to say, "But you got her out! And she's _unconscious_!"

"Not her." Wendy lifted her eyes from Miguel and looked at Tim, holding his gaze firmly with her own. "It's _him_." She saw the confusion on the Lieutenant's face, justified and expected. "It's _Miguel_." She looked back down at him. "The _other_ Miguel, the one that she brought to the surface." Of its own accord her hand on his forehead stroked upward and over his hair once again. "He's not gone. I thought he was, but—" She had been so foolish to take so much for granted, to make such wild and ignorant assumptions. Standing there she could feel Tim's confusion as it bubbled beyond his ability to contain and she frowned, regretfully, and looked at him once more. "He's fighting."

"Fighting?" O'Neill looked between them, his gaze darting up and down a little wildly. "What—you mean—_Miguel_?"

"Both of them, yes." Drawing in a breath that shuddered not only on the way in but on its way out as well, she added gravely, "And only one of them will survive."

* * *

It had caught him off guard, managing not only to grab him but drive him back and all the way down to the ground. He hit hard, the wind knocked out of him, grunting in pain and surprise before he realised the attack probably wouldn't end there. He had brought his hands up, grabbing the other him in return, and his hands were still clutching in their uniform. An instinctive grab and clutch, and one he used now to try and force the other him to a safer distance.

Another him. It was insane. It couldn't be possible.

But it _could_. He knew that. Something, or some_one_, had to have been holding the reins in that time when he had been all the way down at the bottom of—well, whatever it was. When he had been down there this other version of himself, identical in every way physically, must have been in control.

It punched him. Hard. A single solid blow to the face and Miguel was seeing stars, barely even having the breath to curse in his disbelief at the power of it. It felt like it could have knocked him out, very possibly, if it had been just a fraction harder.

And the other him was already rearing back for another blow.

Miguel shoved with his hands, throwing the other him up as much as possible, leaving himself just enough room to get his booted feet up between them so he could _push_. It was enough, thankfully, to get his mirror off him and send them back in a tumble and a roll, his weight tucking over one shoulder. It was textbook, that roll, right out of basic training. Miguel noticed that in as much time as it took to scramble over and up into a crouch, trying to anticipate what would come next.

This was him, _another him_. Surely he could anticipate it, see what was coming, get ahead of it.

For several seconds they stared at one another, facing off without moving or making a sound beyond the in and out of their breathing, and then the Other charged forward anew. Miguel seized the opportunity, tucking himself forward and down and using the momentum of it to carry him over in a roll. It caught the Other at just the right moment, knocking his legs out from under him and spilling him to the ground. Miguel corrected himself, crouching again, and turned to see what might be coming next, turning at just the wrong moment and catching a glancing blow from a boot across his jaw. It sent him sprawling and he had to fight to get his focus back, working to keep the fog at bay, hearing as well as sensing the approach of the Other.

Strong hands caught in the back of his uniform and pulled, heaving, dragging him up and to his feet, which struggled to plant under him with the force and speed of the motion. Miguel ended up looking himself in the face up close, eye to eye, seeing in the Other's little more than fierce intent and drive. And _anger_. So much anger.

Still grasping his uniform the Other swung him around, hard and fast, and released his grip mid-swing. Miguel was powerless to stop himself from being flung, losing his footing yet again and going down and over. When he felt the ground vanish underneath him he couldn't help but let out a yell that was more a yelp than anything and grab wildly, blindly, at anything at all to stop him from dropping. His hand caught on something solid and he held on for dear life. When the world stopped spinning and he could see straight he saw that he had reached the edge where all those steps led, and the solid thing he had caught hold of was one of those steps. His heart skipped, jumped, almost lodged in his throat, and Miguel had just enough time to recognise how lucky he had been before the sound of approaching footsteps reached him.

The Other.

Sure enough he was there, coming fast, and already raising one foot to drive it down right on top of Miguel's hand. With a breathless curse he yanked the hand away before the flat of that boot could come smashing down on his fingers, reaching and grabbing with his other to take hold of the next step down. It meant a drop, and an abrupt one, making his shoulder ache hotly, but it wasn't an impossibly long fall to what could only be a devastating landing. Looking down proved just how far it was, or rather how impossible it was to gauge the distance. It seemed to go on forever. The steps dwindled and faded into the black, uncountable, their end well and truly out of sight.

There was a sound above him like a growl, rough and angry, and Miguel looked up to see the Other glaring down at him. He was lowering into what looked like a crouch, getting closer, and then he was folding one leg toward himself.

_Oh no_.

At the last moment Miguel summoned his strength and swung his weight, back and then forward, letting out a yell of determination and desperation as his momentum carried him across and _under_. For a second that seemed to stretch into an eternity he feared that his reach was lacking, his arm wasn't long enough, he had miscalculated and was about to send himself sprawling into the abyss, but then his fingers caught and he was just able to get his grip before he had no choice but to release the other. There was a roar of frustration as the Other's foot plunged down into empty air.

He had to move. _Fast_. Ignoring the building ache in his arms as much as possible Miguel lunged with his other arm and grabbed the topmost step, heaving his weight upward until he had his chest over the drop, supporting himself awkwardly and more than a little painfully with his arms on the steps from which he was so precariously dangling. The Other was just turning his head, black hair whipping across his face, fixing him with a dark and resentful stare.

_Move, move, __**move**_. There was no time to do anything but move. Miguel had to haul himself up and get clear before the Other could correct from almost unbalancing himself and lash out again. So he pulled and heaved and shoved his way onto the step and instead of trying, awkwardly and desperately, to seize the opportunity to shove the Other right off the edge he had so very nearly fallen from himself he concentrated instead on getting off the steps altogether. It was too dangerous. Not worth the risk.

He heard the smack of a palm striking the step where he had been as he all but threw himself at the platform, rolling himself over and away to get more distance between them. Even after that he didn't feel safe, pushing himself up, all the way out of a crouch and to his feet proper, backing up several more feet as the Other straightened and ascended the steps to follow.

This was crazy. Even after all that had happened Miguel wondered if this wasn't the craziest thing he had ever experienced and it very possibly _was_ but it was neither the time nor the place to figure that out for certain. This was, he had realised, very literally a matter of life and death.

Only one of them was getting out of this alive. And Miguel had to make sure _he_ was the one who survived.

* * *

"What the hell do you _mean_ only one of them will survive?" Ford looked as though he had just been told everything he had ever believed was a lie, his expression was so full of disbelief and scepticism. "It's Miguel's _body_. It's _his_ mind. How can there be two of him in there to begin with?" He turned to take in the faces of those gathered, already shaking his head in what they all knew to be dismissal.

With a short sigh Bridger said, "Like I told you, Jonathan—"

The Commander cut him off with an emphatic wave of his hand, conceding by saying, "I know what you told me, Captain, but didn't that device Lucas disrupted keep that altered personality, or whatever it was, at the surface?" If the teenager had been present he likely would have answered that himself, but he wasn't. Wendy was fairly sure he was sleeping, at last, or at least calmed to such a point that she could no longer pick up on his distress as easily as if it were her own.

"It helped to hold it there, yes, but it was Irina who brought it up in the first place." Of that much she was certain, and if any of them had asked her _how_ she knew, she would not have been able to tell them. She just _knew_.

Ford fixed her with an unconvinced look. "Brought it up from where? Are you telling me that we've all got one of these—what?—mirror personalities inside of us?" His hands were on his hips again, his gaze flitting from one face to the next. It occurred to Wendy then that the Commander was looking for an ally in all of this, someone else to back him up in his disbelief.

Neither Bridger nor O'Neill jumped to his defence, which left the Commander fighting his corner alone.

"Essentially, yes." Thankfully she was used to being faced with such cynicism, the fierce stubbornness that so often went hand in hand with the uniform. It helped her to be patient when faced with the types of refusals and dismissals that Commander Ford was so very good at. Of course, that didn't make it any less frustrating to have to have these verbal battles when there were clearly more urgent matters they ought to be dealing with. "But that's boiling it right down to its simplest form."

Ford's brows raised, a little exaggeratedly. "Right now I like simple."

She pulled in a breath. It was as much to steady her own nerves as it was to fuel the explanation she was about to offer. "There have been psychological studies that show every human being has the capacity for good, but also the capacity for evil. We all have it in us to do terrible things, but it's our choices in life that define us and shape our personalities. Very few people are truly _evil_, we all know that, but—" At that she paused, looking from one face to the next, part of her expecting an argument from one of them. When nothing came she went on, "A parapsychologist by the name of Doctor Teresa Brae theorised that within every living person there is what she calls a _second self_, what you're calling a mirror personality. Usually it's buried so far down in our psyche that it will never see the light of day, a sort of by-product of all the choices we make, or more to the point, all the things we don't do as a result of those choices." Hopefully she had explained it well enough to do Teresa's theory justice. Wendy had met the woman, a gifted parapsychologist, and had been fascinated by her ideas and hypotheses, but trying to simplify and summarise them, especially under such strange and serious circumstances, was certainly easier said than done.

"This is crazy. You're talking Jekyll and Hyde here."

His refusal to budge wasn't surprising. "In a way, yes." She would give him that much. But she frowned, going on to ask him, "Is that really so hard to believe?"

Ford levelled a dubious look her way. "Frankly? Yes. Jekyll and Hyde is _fiction_."

Bridger stepped in then, at least figuratively, saying pointedly, "_Science_ fiction, Commander." He leaned heavily on the word, drawing a line under it.

"Oh, come on, Captain, don't tell me you're buying this." Ford was quick to look her way then. "No offence, Doctor, it's just that this is all a little—" But he trailed off, taking one hand from his hip to wave it without direction in front of him as if to say _you know what I mean_.

Crazy, he meant. He had said it already.

But Wendy didn't think it was so crazy, and clearly, neither did Nathan. He turned his attention squarely on his second in command. "What other explanation is there, Jonathan?" He tilted his head, as if inviting the Commander to challenge or contradict. When he was met with silence the Captain went on, "We all saw this _other_ Ortiz for ourselves and it was _not_ the man who sits on that bridge every day. I can tell you that."

A little of the stiffness in Ford's shoulders had disappeared but he still wasn't convinced. "So he'd been brainwashed." He shrugged a little as he said it, almost as if he didn't quite buy that himself, but he was still looking for more rational explanations. Wendy couldn't hold that against him.

"No. It was more than that. Something much worse," Nathan countered with a shake of his head. "People who have been brainwashed, and in such a short space of time, don't show as much emotion as Ortiz did in that factory. They don't have that—"

"Rage." Wendy didn't even realise she had said the word until they were all looking her way. But there it was, out in the open, hanging in the air between them, ugly and unavoidable. She had felt it, that rage. It had frightened her.

"Exactly." Nathan turned back to Ford. "And it _was_ rage, Commander. Pure and simple."

Ford's hands left his hips then, but he went on to cross his arms over his chest. A defensive stance, most would say, but Wendy knew that with Jonathan Ford it was more of a thoughtful posture. "This woman is the most powerful psychic we've ever come across. You're telling me she couldn't make him behave that way?" He glanced at O'Neill. "We know she took control of Ortiz at least twice while he was on board _seaQuest_. And that was at a distance. Surely in such close proximity—"

It was her turn to cut someone off, shaking her head as she said with certainty, "No." Ford looked her way, a little surprised, but it passed quickly. "In order to take complete control of another person she was having to concentrate solely on that individual. For all intents and purposes, while she was in control of Ortiz, she wasn't in her own body. She was in _his_." Something else she just _knew_. "There is no way she could have been interacting with all of us, and attacking Tony the way she was for that matter, if she was in control of Miguel like that."

The Commander was quiet for a while, close on a minute, before he let out a sigh. His voice was quieter, lacking a good deal of his former conviction when he said, "This is crazy."

"Yes. It is." For the first time since the two senior officers had come into the room O'Neill spoke, from his place perched on the edge of his bed close by. "But that doesn't make it any less true."

Ford looked in the Lieutenant's direction, frowning, obviously trying to think things through and come up with a logical explanation. Wendy suspected he came up short, and quickly.

Nathan regarded his Executive Officer sombrely. "We've all seen with our own eyes just how crazy the real world can be, Jonathan. Think of all the things we've encountered that we never would have thought possible when we joined the service. We've seen, _felt_, stranger things than this." At that he motioned with one hand towards the bed in which their Sensor Chief was laying.

Almost as if on some kind of cue, as if responding to that gesture of the Captain's hand, Miguel moved. Not a great deal, but it was more than just a twitch of his fingers, or the slightest jerk of his hand against the mattress. It was almost as if he was dreaming, Wendy thought; a small sideways tip of his head, first one way and then the other, and then the subtlest shift of one arm. The sound it made against the sheets was oddly loud in the otherwise quiet space.

"What really matters here," Nathan said once the movement had stopped, bringing his gaze up and turning it to take in the others in the room, "is whether or not we can do anything to help Ortiz." His gaze ended up on Wendy, meeting hers and holding it. There had been no questioning inflection in his tone but he was looking to her for an answer all the same.

And she didn't like the answer she was about to give him any more than he would, she knew, but she saw no sense in lying. False hope would help no one, ultimately. "I don't think so. I can feel them in there, but that's it. I can't get in." And God knew she had tried. Even as they had stood there, discussing the situation, she had been trying. She lowered her gaze to Miguel's face, knowing that she wasn't alone in hating the idea that he was having to do this alone. "It's up to him now."


	40. Driving Forward

It didn't take long for the Other to come charging at him again, throwing his weight forward with all the intensity and drive of a bull hurtling itself at a matador. There was nothing but hatred and rage on the face that was thundering towards him, a face that Miguel otherwise knew so well as the one that stared back at him any time he looked in a mirror.

But that wasn't his face. Not at all.

Never in his life could he recall ever being so angry, so consumed by ferocity and fury, and it made the lines and angles of his face harsh and imposing.

It was _frightening_.

But he couldn't turn and run. Not only would the Other pursue him, run him down, and crush him out of existence, but it just wasn't in him to do that. He didn't run from things. Never had. It was how he had joined the UEO, how he had pursued a career in the Navy, how he had chased a commission to the one-of-a-kind flagship, the pride of the fleet. That refusal to give up or turn tail was how he had gotten to where he was in his life today. It had driven him to succeed in his chosen field, going further, faster, than anyone else in his immediate family. It was what had landed him a position on Brody's elite ground combat team, and what had kept him in his seat on the bridge of that flagship, a department head and a member of the senior staff.

Miguel Ortiz didn't run, and he didn't quit.

So he met the Other head-on, letting them plough into him and twisting and ducking to put his shoulder between them at the last second. He felt his shoulder impact the Other's chest, a hard slam, heard the wind knocked out of them, and before he lost too much ground to make a difference he shoved his own weight forward and into that furious mirror image of himself. Unbalanced and thrown by the interception and the sudden halt of his own momentum the Other tipped and then went back, falling to the ground, snatching out at Miguel's uniform but not quickly enough to actually catch anything but air. Miguel had jumped back at the last second, feeling the air shift just in front of him, knowing better than to feel any sense of premature triumph at the minor advantage he had gained over his opponent.

He couldn't stop now.

Without letting more than a single heartbeat pass he drove himself forward again, swinging a kick at the Other's head with the intention of dazing him long enough to really make a difference, possibly even get the job done. It was only a glancing blow, the Other seeing the strike coming and twisting and rolling out of the way of all but the barest brush of boot against skull. Miguel felt a flash of frustration but stamped it down, snuffed it out, and refocused. The Other was quickly regaining his footing, breathing ragged and eyes blazing.

Miguel actually tossed his other self a smile.

It had the desired effect, bringing the Other storming towards him again. Miguel was ready to swing himself out of reach and lash out with another blow of his own but the Other anticipated the feint and met him full-on with a tackle that had them both on the ground before he even knew they were falling. He landed hard, his own weight coming down on top of him, firm and solid and strong, and the Other wasted no time in making use of the upper hand he had gained. A blow smashed down into Miguel's stomach, just at the bottom of his ribcage on his left side, the sudden sharp pain almost blinding, giving the Other all the opportunity he needed to land another strike. It caught Miguel across the face, a solid punch that made his skin feel hot, a field of stars bursting across his field of vision in the immediate wake of it. Another blow to his face had him tasting and smelling blood, thick and wet and metallic, and when he gasped he almost choked on it.

_Move. __**Move**__. Before it's too late._

With as much speed and power as he could muster in that moment Miguel used what gap there was between them to bring his leg up and around, hooking the Other around the ribs on the opposite side, before wrenching his own weight to the left. The Other was driven, forcefully, from his perch and sent sprawling across the ground, eliciting a grunt and something not unlike a growl as he went.

"Look at you," he spat, getting himself up off the ground without taking those burning, resentful eyes from Miguel. "Pathetic." With one last push he was up, using the back of one hand to swipe across his face, over his mouth mainly and under his nose, almost as if _he_ was the one streaming blood. With a low roll of laughter that was brittle like old glass he went on, "You don't deserve what you have. You're not even strong enough to defend it, let alone keep it." And then he grinned, showing teeth. "So I'm going to take it. _All_ of it."

"Like hell you are," Miguel tossed back, getting back to his feet as well, taking a moment to spit the mouthful of blood pooling under his tongue onto the floor, but never taking his eyes from his mirror for so much as a second. "None of this, what I have, is yours, and it never will be." His career, his family, his friends. All of it was hard-earned, fiercely defended despite what that other him was saying, and Miguel would die before he let someone strip any of it away from him.

The Other grinned again. "You're right about _that_ much, at least."

Miguel couldn't help the frown that sprang onto his face. He hadn't expected the agreement with his defiance, a statement in such stark contrast to the aggressive barbs that had preceded it.

"You still don't get how this works, do you?" the Other taunted, laughing at him even as he began to walk. _Stalk_, more like, moving in a wide circle around Miguel who had to turn more or less on the spot to keep his eyes on the very real threat before him. "How _we_ work," he pressed, gesturing between them with a sort of arrogant indifference. The grin became a smirk more like the one he recognised as his own, but there was a cruelty beneath the surface that just didn't belong.

_How this works. _Miguel latched onto those words and immediately tried to make sense of them, taking hold of the problem in his mind and working furiously to take it apart, dissect it, and find a solution. _How __**we**__ work._

"Always trying to think things through," the Other remarked, derisive, the words spoken with a sneer. "You spend too much time up here," he said, tapping his first and middle fingers to his temple, "and not nearly enough time here—" a hand over his heart, "—or _here_." And then that hand went to his stomach. His gut. "That's why you could never beat me."

_Always trying to think things through_. The frown started to slip from Miguel's face. His gaze had wandered briefly from his mirror as his mind worked but his eyes snapped back to that familiar-but-different face suddenly. _How this works. How __**we**__ work._

Of course.

The Other's face froze, the smile halted midway like it had been caught in a trap. Miguel kept his eyes locked on the Other's, so much like his own and yet most definitely _not_ his own, and as his smile started to form, the Other's slipping even further, he began to hear it. See it. _Feel_ it.

They were one and the same, two sides of the same coin, reflections of one another with striking differences in thought and feeling, yes, but they were the _same_. The Other _was_ him.

And he knew his own mind. All of it. Every piece.

It was so brilliantly clear then that it was almost blinding and the Other's smile vanished completely, replaced in an instant by a fresh sneer and an accompanying snarl as the knowledge that he had undone his own advantage swept through his mind.

_Their_ mind.

The Other was all impulse and reflex, fury and rage and desire, want and need. It had none of the logic and reason and patience that Miguel had worked so hard to craft and nurture and sculpt over the years of his life and so it didn't even stop to think, not even for a second, about what might go wrong when it threw itself forward and at the enemy. A sound not unlike a roar broke out of the Other's mouth as he drove towards Miguel who, for once, didn't hold his ground. But he didn't run either.

Carefully and steadily he paced backward, one foot and then the other, closing the gap that was suddenly so clear in his mind, like the blueprints of this space inside of himself had unexpectedly been laid out before him. The Other continue to hurtle forward, closer and closer, and closer still.

And then he was close enough.

Miguel reached out and took hold of twin handfuls of the front of the Other's uniform even as he bent his knees and rocked his weight back. A sort of startled realisation came over the Other's face as he pitched forward, his own momentum working against him. Miguel brought his feet up, both of them, planting them in the Other's stomach, his _gut_, and as his weight continued to rock back, arching, he shoved. _Hard_.

The Other had just enough time to spit out a furious curse, grabbing too late for Miguel's arm or uniform, anything that might slow his movement enough to save him, but he had been moving so hard and so fast that he had no hope of catching himself in time.

Miguel's shove was powerful enough that he felt the burn of the effort through the backs of his thighs, but more importantly it was enough to send his mirror hurtling right on over him and into the open air beyond. Another furious yell came tearing out of the Other's mouth as he went, powerless to stop himself from flying right on over Miguel and forward, hard and fast.

All the way to the edge.

And right on _over_.

Even before that harsh and unforgiving gravity took hold Miguel was rolling over and getting back to his feet. As he was setting one knee down he heard the pitch of that yell shift and change, realisation hitting home with full force, and without mercy. The Other tried to grab at the edge, seeking some kind of purchase with which he might save himself, but it was too late. There was nothing for him to grab.

Miguel reached the edge as the Other went careening right over it, the arc of his forward motion such that he could look into those identical but alien eyes as they went down, growing smaller and smaller, the voice getting dimmer and dimmer as he fell. All the way down, who knew just how far, the Other fell until there was no more falling to be done, and then it hit. Miguel felt the impact like a jolt through his entire body. It robbed him of breath and took all the strength from his limbs. Thankfully when his legs folded underneath him his weight tipped back instead of forward, sparing him the fate of his mirror self. He didn't even feel himself hit the ground.

For what felt like a very long time he simply lay there, flat on his back, staring up into the black nothingness that had been his whole world for what felt like an eternity. He lay there looking at nothing, seeing nothing, and feeling strangely lighter.

And as he watched, as he stared, it wasn't just his own self that felt lighter. As he stared up into that endless dark sky it started to pale, growing paler still, lightening towards something that was recognisably grey. But it didn't stop there. On and on it went, slowly but surely, until the darkness had become a lightness that was close on glaring. It became difficult to look at, a strain on his eyes. He squinted, closing his eyes altogether, and turned himself over, hands flat on the ground so that he could push himself up.

When he opened his eyes again there was light all around him, beautiful and clarifying, and as he lifted his gaze higher still he saw something so wonderful that he almost felt like crying.

A door.

And not just any door.

It was a hatch, just like the ones spread throughout _seaQuest_.

For a moment he struggled to get back to his feet, having to catch himself and force himself to be patient so that he didn't stumble and undo all of his progress. He didn't even pause to wipe the blood from his face, no longer flowing but still warm on his skin, too taken with the sight of the door, that hatch, and his almost unbearable desire to get to it.

Up the few short steps leading to it he went, reaching out with one hand almost hesitantly, some small part of him not daring to believe that it was real.

But it _was_ real. Miguel told himself that it was.

And then he laid his hand on it, lightly at first and then more firmly. With a flowing, almost flooding sense of relief and hard-won triumph, he pushed.


	41. Coming Up for Air

He heard sounds he recognised. Felt something soft underneath him. Somewhere close by there were voices. Voices that, if he strained to listen, he _knew_.

It was a struggle at first to open his eyes, almost as if some part of him had forgotten how to do that one simple thing. Once he had them opened just a crack though, little more than slits, it was as if all of those simple, everyday things came rushing back, gaps filling in effortlessly even as his eyes came open all the way and he pulled down a deep breath, not unlike a man who had come dangerously close to drowning.

"Ortiz?"

"Whoa, hang on. Stay back."

He moved one hand to rub at his face, or at least that was his intention. The motion was stopped short, jerkily, by something around his wrist. As he strained to lift his head to see what that something was, some part of his brain already figuring it out, he saw figures to his right, very likely those who had spoken. In the same moment that his gaze landed on the soft restraint secured around his wrist he felt the sudden warmth across his upper lip.

Doctor Smith moved into view then, concern on her face as well as something that he belatedly realised was concentration.

"Wendy—" It was Captain Bridger's voice, cut off by Doctor Smith's pointed glance in the older man's direction. "Be careful."

She had brought some sort of cloth with her, something that he thought might have smelled faintly antiseptic if he had been able to smell anything other than the blood that had spilled from his nose the instant he had raised his head. With one hand she supported the back of his head while the other held the thick white material under his nose. Even as she did that she was saying, "I am being careful, Nathan, but I'm still going to do my job."

Careful? Why did they need to be careful? And why was he re—

_Oh_.

They thought he might still be—whatever he had been before. His other self? The idea was still too surreal to accept, even after facing off against it inside of his own mind. It felt more like a dream than any kind of reality but the restraints around his wrists, and his ankles he realised, as well as the blood from his nose, those things were all very real. And hadn't his nose been bleeding before? In that place?

"I'm not sensing anything we need to worry about, Captain," Doctor Smith was saying, looking down at Miguel even as she cautiously removed the gauze. He didn't feel anything fresh spilling from his nose but the smell, thick and metallic, showed no signs of easing up. "Miguel?" He looked her in the eyes then, her hand still supporting the back of his head. She was keeping him from resting it back, he realised, most likely to help him avoid getting that blood down his throat. "Miguel, can you hear me?"

His throat felt dry, a little raw as if he had been shouting, and a great deal, but he swallowed against that dry, sandy feeling and managed, "Yeah." His voice wasn't very loud but she was close enough that she seemed to have no trouble hearing him.

"Good." She was speaking quietly now as well, still looking him in the eyes, almost as if she was searching for something. "I need to take a look," she said to him. "Is that okay?" When he frowned a little she lifted her eyes to look just above his own and he understood then. She wanted to read him, as she called it sometimes. Take a look inside. In his mind.

As rough as his throat felt, and his voice had sounded, he settled instead for giving a small nod of his head, her hand still supporting it at the back. It was starting to feel uncomfortable, the position he had ended up in, and the sooner they could clear up all doubt the sooner he could sit up properly. As wary as he was of having any psychic inside of his head, even one he trusted as much as he did Doctor Smith, he just wanted all of this to be _over_.

The room was quiet as Wendy once again met his gaze with her own, holding it for several seconds before her eyes slipped closed and she drew in a deep breath. She remained that way for a while, quiet and still, and Miguel thought he felt the faintest brush of her presence inside of his mind. Was he more aware of such things now, after what had happened? Or was Wendy letting him feel it?

Ultimately it didn't matter, but he couldn't help wondering. It was almost a morbid sort of curiosity, all things considered.

When Wendy opened her eyes again a small but certain smile touched her lips and lifted them at the corners. She met his gaze again, the smile growing a little as she said, "Welcome back, Miguel."

The relief that flooded through him was almost overwhelming but he managed to compose himself enough to say, quietly, "Thank you." And then after a moment, "For everything." Because he had heard her voice in that darkness, felt her reaching and hoping and above all, never giving up on him. That meant more than he could put into words, certainly this soon after coming out of that hell.

"You're sure?" That was Ford's voice. He had heard it before, soon after waking, but he was only certain of that now that it had sounded again.

Wendy helped him ease his head back down to the pillow as she spoke, "Very much so, Commander." She straightened, looking to someone else. When Miguel turned his head he saw that that someone was the Captain. "With your permission?"

Bridger was quiet for a moment, looking between the Doctor and Miguel himself, before he gave a nod. As Wendy went about releasing the restraints he focused on Miguel, and said, "Welcome back, Chief."

He wanted to thank the man, as he had the Doctor, but the words stuck in his throat and at first he wasn't sure why. It wasn't that he wasn't grateful for everything the Captain and the rest of the crew had done, far from it, but it didn't feel right. After what was only a few seconds but what felt so much longer he realised what it was, even as he said, his voice still dry and rough, "Good to be back, sir."

They were welcoming him back, but _that_ was the part that didn't feel right. They could and very likely would dress it up as being beyond his control, every bit of it, but the harsh reality was that many of the things that had been done had been by _his_ hand. No one else's. And he had made decisions, conscious ones, that had put others at risk. Those words from Doctor Smith and Captain Bridger, _welcome back_, might have been heartfelt on their part but they didn't feel deserved. Not to him.

"We'll let you get some rest," Bridger said, snapping him out of his thoughts, even as he rose from the chair he had been sitting in nearby. "When you're feeling up to it we'd like to hear _your_ version of events."

There was a lump in his throat that he had trouble speaking around, and a knot in his stomach that felt like it was forged from steel, but he gave his head the slightest nod and managed to say, "Yes, sir." Dread had formed that knot, he knew, and the lump as well. The idea of reliving _any_ of what had happened was almost enough to make him feel physically sick and when Wendy and one of the medical staff moved in to help him sit up he was almost reluctant to let them. But he did, staying quiet as they helped him, as Captain Bridger and Commander Ford excused themselves and headed out without another word.

When he was sitting up he didn't feel any better, but he didn't feel any _worse _either, at least not until he looked across the room at what he hadn't been able to see before. Or rather, _who_. O'Neill was awake but quiet, the head of his bed angled up enough that they could see each other clearly. He looked a little pale but otherwise no worse for wear. Miguel knew that wasn't true. He remembered all too well what had happened the last time they had been in the same room, just the two of them, and that nausea returned with a vengeance.

Tim smiled but Miguel couldn't bear it. Couldn't return it. Just as he averted his gaze, shame and regret and guilt surging up inside of him and crashing around like stormy waves, he saw Tim's smile waver and then drop away. And that just made him feel even worse.

* * *

It made sense, he knew, the way Miguel had looked away like that, but that didn't make it any easier to deal with the fact that his best friend couldn't even bear to look at him. Tim was doing his best not to take it personally, reminding himself that his friend had been through much more than he could ever imagine, but it was never that easy to put his anxieties aside. It never had been. At his station on the bridge he could properly quiet and contain everything but outside of a professional situation, when things were more relaxed and separated from the often life-and-death severity of their duties, it had never been that easy for him. Just why he couldn't accomplish that same laser focus off duty was beyond him, not to mention beyond frustrating, and by this point in his life it was something that he had been forced to accept as an undeniable and inescapable part of himself.

He had watched wordlessly, without staring, as Doctor Smith and Charlotte, the nurse, had helped Miguel to not only sit up but drink from a cup that the latter had brought over. By the time Charlotte set it aside it was empty, Tim noticed, wobbling a little in its weightlessness as it came to rest on a nearby tray. There had been some discussion, low and what Tim assumed to be confidential if only because their voices were so hushed, and after only a relatively short time Wendy had headed off again, leaving Miguel to lie down once more and, presumably, get some rest.

Tim couldn't tell if his friend was asleep, in large part due to the fact that Miguel had lain down on his side, facing the far wall. Tim couldn't see his face. A conscious choice? Most likely.

He had been doing a fairly poor job of convincing himself that it was only temporary, that avoidance, when he heard movement from the door off to his left. Lonnie was standing in the doorway when he turned his head and she gave him a smile, lifting her brows in a querying sort of motion, obviously not wanting to make too much noise. He gave a little sideways jerk of his head, inviting her inside. As she crossed the threshold he couldn't help but look over towards Miguel again.

"He asleep?" Lonnie asked softly as she carefully picked up a stool and set it beside Tim's bed, as close to the head as she could get without interfering with any equipment. Tim nodded in response. "You get a chance to talk to him yet?"

He almost laughed but was able to catch himself, so very far beyond thankful that he had done so, because not only would it have been inappropriate as well as disruptive, but it would have been needlessly self-deprecating. Self-pitying, even. _Not personal_, he kept telling himself. Or he was trying, anyway. "Not yet," he said quietly, giving a small shake of his head. "I, uh—" He looked at Lonnie. "I don't think he's feeling up to it." Miguel hadn't said much to the Captain or Commander Ford, after all, and even when Doctor Smith had been speaking to him he had seemed reluctant to speak much.

_See? Not personal_.

"I guess I can understand that." Lonnie was looking across the room as well. Tim suspected she couldn't see Miguel's face any better than he could. "It might help, but it's his choice." Even as she said that Tim thought he heard the subtlest notes of disappointment there. That made him curious, but not nearly enough to ask a question that he thought he didn't really have any business asking.

"Yeah," he ended up saying instead. It was different for everyone, he knew, that whole talking after difficulties thing, and he had never personally been in any sort of rush to do so. What few unsettling things had happened to him over the course of his life had felt personal, private, and he had felt more like guarding them and keeping them secret than sharing them with anyone, even someone qualified to hear the troubles of others.

Miguel had never seemed like the type to _be_ troubled by anything. Until now, anyway. Now troubled felt like an almost pitiful understatement, a word that fell so far short of the mark that it was—well, not laughable. There was nothing even close to amusing about _any_ of this.

A sound from across the room sent his thoughts scattering and he turned his head quickly in the direction of the source. To his left Lonnie gave a soft, quiet gasp as they both noticed the same thing at the same moment.

* * *

It felt like he had been hit by a truck. A _big_ truck. Maybe an armoured one.

The groan that slipped out of him was thick and sluggish, followed soon afterwards by a string of what he had groggily intended to be words but had ended up being little more than just _sounds_. When he tried to move, attempting to gauge what the heck was going on and where he was, he was rewarded with pain of varying degrees from at least a dozen different places and he ended up making more of those shapeless, almost senseless noises.

Through them all one word came out with enough clarity to be understood: "_Ow_."

"Lieutenant Brody?" That was a nice voice. He thought he knew it. "Lieutenant Brody, try to lie still. You're in med bay."

Oh. That told him the where, at least.

At first all he was getting in terms of memory were disjointed images and sounds, things that didn't go together, like there were pieces missing, almost as if someone had cut out all the important parts and left him with little more than scraps. Fragments. He groaned again, more frustrated than pained this time, and worked to open his eyes. Maybe that would help.

"Lieutenant, can you hear me?" There was that nice voice again. "Lieutenant?"

His eyes opened, no more than halfway but it was enough to tell him why he knew that voice, that soft and soothing voice that had done a pretty good job of keeping him from worrying about all of the how and why that had led to the where. Doctor Smith was looking down at him and she gave him a smile almost as nice as her voice, even as she said, "There you are."

There he was. In med bay, she had said. It certainly felt like he belonged in med bay, considering the many complaints he was getting from various parts of his body. He was having trouble keeping it all straight.

"We were pretty worried about you for a while there," Doctor Smith said to him, and then out of nowhere there was a bright light and Jim couldn't help but react to it. With a vocalisation that came out sounding more like _gah_ than an actual word he tried to swat at the light only to feel gentle fingers close around his wrist and ease his arm back down. "It's all right, Lieutenant. This will only take a second."

And longer if he resisted, probably. So he groaned and tried not to fuss, beyond grateful when the small but vicious light flicked off, leaving him to try and blink away the yellow spots in his vision.

"I'd ask how you're feeling, but I think I already know the answer to that."

Confused, sore, already fed up with being _laid_ up. Had she read his mind to know that or did he looked as bad as he felt?

Probably the latter.

"Doc?" It came out like a question of its own accord. "Did we win?" Because it sure didn't feel like _he_ had. Whatever had happened it felt like he had gone ten rounds with that armoured truck and very much come out the loser. Actually, now that he thought about it, or _tried _to think about it at least, he was pretty sure he could recall flying through the air.

No, that wasn't quite right.

Being _thrown_. That was it.

"Yes," she said to him, giving him another one of those smiles. "We did." She looked elsewhere for a few moments, at something he couldn't see from where he was laying, before her eyes came back down to him. "Thanks to _you_, actually." Her smile had softened, even faded a little, and there was something in those words that he couldn't quite figure out just yet. But it felt personal. Important.

Thanks to him? He wasn't sure how, or why, but it was good to hear. That they'd made it, that they'd come through. It was good to know that they'd won, even if he didn't feel like he'd won anything more than a long stay in med bay.

There were other questions bubbling up in his brain but by the time they actually took shape he was already well on his way towards slipping back into the darkness he had only just heaved himself out of. Good thing, too. There was no pain in the darkness, only peace and quiet and much-needed rest.


	42. The Eye of the Storm

The next time Miguel woke it was to find that someone had laid a blanket over him while he slept. It troubled him more than a little that he hadn't stirred, and it troubled him even more that he was perturbed at all. Normally that sort of thing wouldn't have worried him in the slightest, and in fact he would have been grateful to whoever had done such a thing. It was a thoughtful gesture, after all, more than anything even remotely insidious, but he couldn't shake that feeling of unsettlement, like an itch under his skin that he just couldn't shake. Normally he would have found out, by one means or another, who had done the simple thoughtful thing and thanked them for it. _Normally_.

But what was normal now?

Miguel swallowed as best he could against the sandy dryness in his mouth and throat, grimacing as he did so.

Had his experiences really affected him so much? Had they _changed_ him so much?

He wanted the answer to be no, and a resounding one at that, but he could only try to fool himself for so long before the effort itself just felt sickening.

All of this, it _had_ changed him, perhaps irrevocably, and pretending otherwise was not only pointless but possibly even dangerous. Working the way they did, offshore and _underwater_ for weeks at a time, sometimes longer, wasn't easy by any stretch of the imagination. If a person wasn't careful they could lose track of not only time, but themselves. Little things started to slip, and it was like dominoes after that. Little things led to big things. A lot of the time the warning signs were subtle, quiet and small enough that others didn't notice if they weren't _looking_ for them, and with a crew like that aboard the _seaQuest_ no one would ever expect such a thing was even possible. They were the best of the best, handpicked, carefully selected after meticulous study of personal and professional records. Not just anyone got assigned to the UEO's flagship, its pride and joy, the most sophisticated and advanced vessel in its already impressive fleet.

And it wouldn't take much for that assignment to be revoked, under the right circumstances. Or the _wrong_ ones, more to the point.

Miguel couldn't really think of anything worse.

Trying to move, to sit up, brought with it a rush of pain that made him feel almost unbearably dizzy. A fierce wave of it was concentrated to the left side of his face, the lower half at least, and it was deep and biting enough that it actually made his eyes sting with tears. There were other hurts too, a hot discomfort down his arm and an uncomfortable familiar burn of an ache through his ribs, but they were easier to ignore than his jaw.

Because he knew it was his jaw. He remembered. At first he hadn't, his brain struggling to put everything back in the right order, but after a while everything clicked and slotted together again and he remembered. The blow that had almost knocked him senseless, the pain of it, whatever had been in that cup that she had had him drink from, something that had quieted and dulled that pain long enough for him to get some semblance of rest.

A discomforted feeling, like the raising of the hairs at the back of his neck, had him lifting his gaze and angling it across the room. Not towards O'Neill, who seemed to be sleeping if the lack of movement was any indication, and not at Brody who was settled in a bed off towards the rear of the room. Past that, beyond it and even further back into the room. That feeling, that icy crawl just beneath the surface of his skin, worsened when his gaze landed on that bed, and the figure within it.

_Irina_.

The sight of her, even unconscious as she seemed to be, was enough to have his heart instantly picking up in speed, a suddenly rapid drumming in his chest, and his breathing caught and hitched. It hurt. He made a sound without even realising it, laboured and _frightened_. Anger that quickly became heavy with disgust flooded through him and clouded his vision even as he tried to disentangle his legs from the blanket that unknown someone had laid over him. The urge, the _need_, to get away was too strong for him to ignore and even though the movement, every twist and shift of his body, reignited already demanding and relentless pains through his ribs and arm and skull, he had to _go_.

"Miguel?" The sound came from that same direction, the one which he was now avoiding with his eyes by any means necessary, as if merely gazing towards the blonde woman again would rouse her and draw her attention. It was getting harder to breathe. "Miguel—_whoa_." He had managed to free his legs from the blanket, _mostly_, but one foot had gotten tangled and he almost spilled out of the bed altogether.

The hands that caught him were careful, but carried a quiet kind of urgency that some part of his brain almost instantly recognised as belonging to Doctor Smith, even before his vision cleared just enough for him to see her standing close to him. Close enough to catch him, at least.

"What are you doing?" And her brow creased. "What's wrong?"

Miguel flinched despite himself. She had read his mind. It was probably only surface thoughts, unintentional on her part, involuntary due to the strength of whatever was fuelling his desperate motions in that moment, but it was still too much. And it _scared_ him. "I—" But his breath caught again and he couldn't get it back. His chest felt tight, tighter still, so tight that it was as if someone had closed a vice around it and was winding its powerful jaws closer and closer together.

His vision was tunnelling. Growing dark at the edges. Creeping in.

* * *

A raised voice had him stirring, groggy at first until he heard concern in that voice as it sounded again. That had him lifting his hands to rub at his eyes before he reached out blindly, a little clumsily, for his glasses. As soon as they were on he could see what it was that had woken him and before he could even think about whether or not it was a good idea he was practically scrambling out of bed and moving across the floor. He didn't even pause to shove his feet into the simple slippers on the floor. What he _did_ have to pause for was the IV pole, which he felt snag and wobble dangerously when he pulled the line tight by accident. He had forgotten all about it. With a hasty grumble under his breath he stumbled, reached back, snatched hold of the stupid thing and shoved it along with him. It was that or rip the thing out of his arm and he didn't think he had the stomach for that.

As quickly as possible he crossed the room, not even noticing the chill of the floor against his bare feet. Even before he got close enough to bow his head a little to get a better look at Miguel's face he knew what he was seeing, what was happening to the other man. Just because it was something he _never_ would have expected to see in his best friend that didn't change what was happening.

"He's having a panic attack." It was stated as fact, straightforward and firm, rather than posed as a suggestion. He looked briefly to Doctor Smith when she turned her head to meet his gaze, and he could see in her eyes the briefest moment in which she had thought about asking if he was sure. She must have seen it in his face that he was. He didn't ask for permission for what he did next, just moved in even closer and brought both hands up to take hold of Miguel's face on either side, catching himself at the last moment and setting his hands further back, clear of his friend's jaw. It still had the desired effect of holding Miguel's head at an angle where he could see who was standing directly in front of him. "Miguel? Hey, Miguel, it's me. It's Tim." The other man's dark eyes were wide but almost unseeing, filled with that panic that was threatening to seize full control of his body and every single one of its functions. "It's me. Listen to my voice. Okay? Just listen to my voice." He held his friend's gaze even if Miguel didn't seem to really be _seeing_ him and pressed on, "I know you're scared, and you have no idea what's happening. But just focus on my voice." The sound of Miguel fighting and failing to get air down into his lungs was awful, close to one of the worst sounds Tim thought he had ever heard, and for a moment it was a struggle to keep his own emotions in check. "You need to _breathe_, Miguel. _Breathe_."

He moved his hands then, setting one at the back of Miguel's head instead of the side, the other reaching down for the other man's hand. He caught it easily enough and brought it up, before planting it on his own chest. Right over his heart. "Breathe with me, Miguel. In and out. You know this, right? In and out, nice and slow." And then he started to do just that for himself, taking in a deep breath that raised his chest beneath his friend's hand, letting it fill his lungs completely, before allowing it to slide back out, his chest sinking once again beneath the other man's palm. "In and out," he said quietly, encouragingly, seeing the subtlest shift in Miguel's dark eyes and giving him a small nod of reassurance. "That's it. In and out, slow and steady."

They stayed like that for a while, Tim wasn't sure how long, with Doctor Smith standing close by but not interfering in any way, her gaze moving frequently between the two of them. Little by little Miguel's eyes cleared enough for Tim to be sure he was actually _seeing_ things again, and after a while he felt the other man's hand shift against his chest, fingers curling in a little, just for a moment, before he splayed them properly and really seemed to focus on the movement and the beat of the heart beneath.

"That's it," he said again, recognising probably better than most that the storm was passing, and the skies were clearing. There were still clouds, he could see that in Miguel's eyes, but for the moment at least the danger seemed to have passed. "There you go. Just like that." He released Miguel's wrist then and laid his own hand on his friend's chest in return, nodding his head once again as he felt the rhythm of the heartbeat beneath his palm. "You're okay."

But even as the words left his mouth he knew that they were a lie. They weren't even particularly comforting, not for him and certainly not for Miguel, whose eyes held a shine that was threatening to ruin what composure Tim was managing to hold together for his friend's benefit.

Miguel was not okay. Far, _far_ from it.

* * *

It felt like he was falling apart. One piece at a time, in scraps and pieces and fragments, it felt like he was fracturing and crumbling.

It was terrifying. More than terrifying. It was the worst sort of fear he had ever felt in his life and even once he had his breath back the magnitude of that fear seemed so great that it might just crush him. It felt dangerously close.

Miguel didn't know what to do.

He couldn't remember if he had settled himself back on the edge of the bed or if he had been guided there but part of him was aware that it didn't matter. He just _was_. Doctor Smith was checking things, the front of his uniform jumpsuit had already been unzipped and someone had obviously eased his arms from the sleeves. He hadn't really noticed it until then, and he couldn't help but wonder, distantly, just when it had been done.

Tim was still standing close by. When Miguel's vision had cleared enough during that breathless, crippling eternity of sheer and numbing _panic_ to see that it was Tim, part of him had wanted to shy away, put distance between himself and the man he had hurt so terribly. His closest friend. But another part of him had seized control and kept him rooted to the spot, refusing to allow him to move. That part had obviously known that Tim was trying to help, that he _could_ help. And so he had. Now, even with that awful moment passed and with that same first part of him still wanting to draw away and put distance between them, he didn't think he had it in him to do it. Physical strength or force of will, he didn't know which and just like how he had come to sit on the bed it didn't really matter.

"I'll get you some painkillers," Doctor Smith said, draping her stethoscope back around her neck, settling it gently on either side of her chest. "We need to talk about—"

"I—" He had cut her off prematurely, before he had his own words aligned in his head. Miguel closed his eyes, frustrated, and shook his head. Trying to talk, shaking his head like that, it hurt his jaw. Badly. He couldn't keep from eliciting a small groan of discomfort.

"Try not to talk," she said gently, her touch landing lightly on his shoulder. "There's nothing I can do but give you those painkillers. It's best not to talk too much."

But he had to say it. He had to say it _now_. "I can't—" It was a sharp ache, hot and carrying with fierce intensity through his whole skull. He hadn't known that it was possible for _all_ of his teeth to hurt, not before that moment. "Here." Frustration again.

"Miguel." She sighed softly. "If you let me, I can—"

"_No_." It bolted out of him, that word, so fast and so forceful that it startled him as much as it did them, both of them, caught off guard by the power of it. The pain through his jaw was so bad now that it was almost difficult to think. He had to say what he needed to say. "I can't—" he forced himself to say it slowly, and carefully, "—be here."

"What do you mean?" She was standing close enough that he could see her, even with the slight wavering of his focus. "Here on the ship?"

Miguel almost shook his head again but stopped himself. "_Here_."

"Med bay," Tim offered and Miguel felt a wave of almost overwhelming relief that the other man was there in that moment. Of course Tim would figure out what he meant. And sure enough, after a few moments, the man shifted his gaze across the room and then brought it back, understanding dawning along with realisation. "_She's_ here."

He hadn't meant to squeeze his eyes shut at that word, _she's_, but it just happened. He couldn't stop it. It was like the word itself was a physical blow, one he had to brace himself for.

"Oh, Miguel." It wasn't pity in Doctor Smith's voice, but something that he thought might have been regret. He heard her sigh, a short, swift sound. Was she frustrated? Without turning his head to look at her he couldn't be sure and his jaw hurt too much for him to even dare to _try_. "We're not done here, but—" She looked at him again, their eyes meeting. "Let me speak to Captain Bridger. We'll work something out."

Without realising he had been gripping the edge of the bed, so tightly that his hands started to ache, and when he glanced down at one of them he saw that the knuckles had turned white. When he brought his eyes up again he saw Tim looking as well. There was no need for him to feel ashamed but he couldn't stop that either, just like the panic and the fear and everything else that was running wild inside of him and threatening to trample him in the process.

Miguel didn't know what to do. And he didn't know how long he would be able to stand it.

* * *

"What about the implant?" Nathan frowned as he set his work aside, focusing all of his attention on the vid-link screen. He hadn't been surprised to hear from Wendy, but what she was telling him had certainly caught him off guard. "You haven't removed it yet." He didn't need to phrase that as a question. She wouldn't have gone ahead without informing him first.

"No, I haven't." She hadn't needed to reassure him either, but she did it anyway. It was her turn to frown, and deeply. "But Nathan, you didn't see it. He _cannot_ stay here, not if she's here as well. I've never seen _anyone_ on this crew like that, least of all Ortiz."

That was troubling, to say the least. He set his chin in his palm, his fingers curled near his mouth. His mind was running but not on any one subject, his thoughts already streaming off along several paths at once. Quieting those thoughts he gave Wendy his full attention again. "So what do you suggest, Doctor?" He lowered his hand, knitting it with the other on the table top. "He obviously still needs treatment, and the Dvornikov woman needs to be kept under observation."

"Most of what I can do for Ortiz can be done anywhere on _seaQuest_," she told him. Clearly she had already given this some thought. "But I wouldn't feel comfortable sending him back to his quarters. It wouldn't be fair to Ortiz, or Tyson for that matter." She heaved a sigh. "Honestly I'm not thrilled about the idea of him not being under medical supervision for the foreseeable future, but—" If there was a natural end to that sentence she didn't see fit to share it with him. "The best I can think of is that we move him temporarily to guest quarters." Wendy opened her mouth as if to say something else, and then closed it.

Nathan studied her face for a moment. Just a moment. It was all he needed. "Under guard," he added on her behalf.

Another sigh. "I don't like it," she said, "but—"

"Better safe than sorry?"

Wendy's smile was weary, and a little sad. She gave him a small nod.

It didn't really need a lot of thought on his part, or consideration. If Wendy thought this was the best idea then he would go along with it. But he wanted to be sure that they had considered all alternatives first. "Can't we move the Dvornikov woman to the brig? We could set up all the necessary equipment there."

"I thought about that myself," she said, "but there's a risk to moving her. We need to keep her condition perfectly maintained or there's the chance she might start to regain consciousness. And with her power?" Her brows lifted, her head shaking back and forth a little.

"I see your point," Nathan conceded, holding up a hand. He didn't even want to imagine what kinds of havoc that woman could unleash on his boat, a _second_ time at that, if she managed to get loose. Things had been bad enough when she hadn't been physically present. "And what _about_ the implant? When can you remove it?"

She shifted a little in her seat. "As soon as we believe it can be done safely." She was quiet for only a moment, before saying, "As soon as Doctor Clarke is happy that the procedure doesn't pose a serious risk to Ortiz, he'll let me know."

Nathan didn't like the idea of that thing still being in one of his people, especially not one who had already been through so much recently. "And Lucas is sure that it's completely deactivated?"

Wendy nodded. "He's regularly checking for a signal, just to be sure." Obviously the Doctor and their Chief Computer Analyst had been working closely on the matter. Nathan found that reassuring.

He gave her a nod. "All right. Go ahead and do what you think is best. I'll speak to Jonathan about assigning temporary quarters, and a guard to post at the door."

"Captain?" Once their eyes met again she went on, "The guard? Make sure it's someone Ortiz knows well." The shadow of a smile she gave him was almost apologetic, as if adding anything else at this point was some sort of nuisance. In Nathan's opinion nothing could be further from the truth. "Someone he trusts," she said, and that shadow of a smile slipped away completely, leaving her once again looking weary and worried.

Another nod, this time a single bob of his head. "I will, Doctor." It was a good call, and definitely one he would go along with. If he was completely honest with himself he was thoroughly out of his depth on this one, this whole situation, and the sooner they got it all wrapped up and dealt with the better he would feel. He suspected he wasn't the only one, either.

Wendy gave him a small bob of her own and disconnected the link. Nathan watched the screen iris out, winking away to reveal the UEO's emblem on a field of black. With a heavy sigh he sat back in his chair, resting his head on his hand, feeling more than a little weary and worried himself.


	43. Not Alone

Three days had felt like a very long time to Lonnie, when in reality she knew that it was hardly anything at all. In the grand scheme of things it was nothing, barely more than a drop in the ocean, wording that felt all the more appropriate given their surroundings. To her though, it had felt almost like an eternity, stretching on and on with no end in sight, one minute dragging into the next almost torturously.

And things had progressed, changing and adjusting in small ways that started to add up to more noticeable shifts as that time went on. The bruising around Lucas' neck continued to fade, Tony was returning more and more to his usual indomitably vibrant self, Jim was spending more time awake than asleep, and Tim was right on the verge of being released from med bay.

The fact that so many other smaller things were progressing and changing made the one thing that _wasn't_ all the more stark and jarring, she knew. Their repair and return to the norm only highlighted that one thing's stasis, its stagnation, and that was eating away at her with small, vicious teeth that she could feel gnawing and grinding with every sluggish minute that passed.

Miguel had not improved.

For three days he had been in guest quarters, and nowhere else. People had been inside, of course, either to attempt to visit or to take him food, or in Wendy's case to check up on his condition. The visits had ended prematurely, fruitlessly, once it became clear that any kind of interaction was out of the question, and a majority of the food that was taken in came back out again a few hours later. Wendy assured them all that there was no manipulation or interference, at least in the psychic sense, but if anything that only made the whole situation that much more worrying.

Doctor Clarke was still working with Lucas to guarantee the successful removal of the device that had been inserted in the back of Miguel's neck. They were working primarily on finding the least invasive course of action, wanting to not only ensure that Miguel suffered no unpleasant after effects from the surgery but also guarantee that they removed every last trace of the device. They were close, they had said, almost completely confident in the procedure's success, but they all wanted to be absolutely sure. They weren't willing to take any risks.

Lonnie's concern, in which she was sure she wasn't alone, was that it wouldn't make any difference once it was over and done with, that the removal of the device wouldn't help Miguel at all. Physically it wasn't doing him any harm, or at least that was what they had all been assured by those with the experience and intelligence to guarantee such things, but mentally? Emotionally? That was something else entirely. Mentally, emotionally, Miguel was not only struggling, but _defeated_. Or that was how it seemed to her. Granted, she didn't know the Sensor Chief as well as Tim or Lucas or their commanding officers, but she liked to think she had gotten to know him well enough in the time that she had known him to _know_ that he was hurting. Deeply.

The tray of food was balanced on one hand as she headed down the corridor, not yet in sight of the door to guest quarters but getting close. Soon she would round the last bend and a very familiar figure would come into view. If she was honest with herself the sight of that unmistakeable figure, that distinct face, would go a long way towards making _her_ feel better. The thought felt selfish, something for which she immediately chastised herself, but there was no ignoring the fact that she _did_ feel better when she came around that bend and saw Dagwood turn his head to look at her.

Almost instantly he was up off the stool that someone had given him to perch upon while he kept watch. "But I'm supposed to stand," he had said with a frown, and when his comment had been met with nothing but confusion and uncertainty he had gone on to elaborate. "It's called _standing_ guard. I'm not supposed to stand?"

Lonnie couldn't help but smile. Dagwood did his best to return the expression, she noticed, saying as he did so, "Hi, Lonnie."

"Hey, Dagwood." She moved closer, noticing that he looked over the tray of food, something else that made her smile. "Here, I brought you this." She plucked an apple off the tray with her free hand and offered it out to him, prompting an actual, full smile with the gesture.

"Thank you." As always the genuine gratitude and appreciation in the simple statement reminded her so much of a child and she felt a rush of warm fondness for the man standing in front of her. If the world had more people like Dagwood, she had often thought, then it would be a much, _much_ better place. "Are you going inside?" He was holding the apple in both hands, almost cradling it.

She nodded her head, glancing down at the tray, now minus the piece of fruit she had scooped up in the galley with the intention of giving it to the GELF who now held it like it was something precious to be treated with care. "He's not eating much," she told Dagwood, even though she suspected he had already noticed that for himself. He had taken very little time away from the duty for which he had been selected, not only because she knew he would consider it a very important job that deserved his full attention, but also because the man on the other side of that door was someone that Dagwood considered a friend. "I thought I'd stop by," she said, "see if I could change that."

Dagwood made a low, almost thoughtful sound in the back of his throat. "Maybe he only has a small stomach" he said after a moment, instantly transporting Lonnie back to that table in the galley, when she had plucked that banana from Dagwood's hands and stripped it of its peel so he didn't end up eating the whole thing. She smiled, but it was touched with a little of the sadness and regret she couldn't help feeling in the wake of the reminder.

_We should have noticed_. Those words had been drifting through her mind regularly over the last three days. Longer, even.

"Maybe, Dag." They were the exact same words she had said to him that day, at that table, and the GELF seemed to recognise that. His own smile was much like her own, a little sad and sorry. "You're doing a great job out here," she went on, lifting her free hand and touching it to his arm. "Thank you, Dagwood."

He made another low sound, like a hum, head bowing almost sheepishly as he said sincerely, "You're welcome." And then he shuffled a little to the side, fully out of the way of the door, standing close to the stool but not quite perching himself back on its edge.

Lonnie gave him another smile, thankful and fond and full of a quiet but potent sort of relief, once again finding herself wondering just where they would all be if it wasn't for Dagwood. And then she stepped forward, knocking lightly on the door before popping it open and slipping inside.

Even before she had quietly closed the door behind her she noticed that the lights were down low, almost to the bare minimum. The room was lit, she realised, by a few of the lamps dotted around the room rather than the main overheads, a fact she confirmed with a brief glance upward. Part of her was tempted to flick those main overheads on, without asking at that, but then she stopped herself. She had to pick her battles, she knew, words she heard in her father's voice, turning her attention to the room in general in an effort to find its sole occupant.

At first she almost didn't notice him, he was sitting so still, and so quietly as well. He hadn't even turned his head to watch her enter, or to check she didn't tamper with the lights. Instead his head was angled down towards the table set in the centre of the room, the middle of which was adorned with a UEO emblem. Off to the side of that prominent motif was a glass of water, a little over half full, and a mug that she could see even at a distance was almost completely full.

She glanced down at the identical mug sitting on the tray balanced on her hand, holding what she suspected was a similar if not equally identical liquid. Had whoever brought him that untouched mug added honey, like she had? Possibly, but more importantly, did it matter? If she could get him to drink even a _little_ of it she would count it as a victory.

For almost a whole minute she waited for him to notice her, or acknowledge her presence in some way, but when it became clear that he wasn't going to do any such thing she invited herself into the room proper and approached the seating area. He had chosen to occupy the couch more or less facing the door, a choice that didn't surprise her considering what had happened to him recently. At some point he had changed, or been _encouraged_ to change she suspected, and instead of his uniform he was now wearing slightly loose-fitting clothing. Something he would feel more comfortable in, she could imagine Wendy saying by way of encouragement, but looking at Miguel then she saw anything but comfort. He looked, at a glance, like he was slouching, but she saw the subtle signs of stiffness in his shoulders that told her he was on edge. Waiting for something bad to happen. She had seen that readiness any time they had been out on a mission, that tension in his strong, broad shoulders and chest that told her he was ready to spring into action at the first sign of trouble.

It looked so out of place on _seaQuest_, in guest quarters of all places. She couldn't help but frown, even if only for a moment.

"Hey," she ventured, keeping her voice low, but even at a reduced volume she seemed to startle him. It wasn't violent, or even particularly obvious, but she saw the slight jerk in his posture and the sudden way in which he lifted his head told her that he hadn't really been _present_ a moment ago. Miguel hadn't realised he had company. Lonnie let her gaze wander to the logo emblazoned on the table, where he seemed to have been focusing only a second earlier, but she couldn't see anything particularly captivating. "You okay?"

As soon as the words left her mouth she realised how stupid they were, but where Miguel normally would have lightly teased her for such a thing he only blinked tired-looking eyes and made a low, noncommittal sound, shapeless and without any real meaning. Of its own accord his gaze had lowered and drifted back to the table, and the badge upon it.

Making a choice, Lonnie set the tray down right on top of that symbol, effectively covering it and blocking it from sight. She allowed herself a moment of quiet satisfaction when it seemed to have the desired effect. Miguel blinked again, before lifting one hand to rub at his eyes, before he glanced up briefly towards her. "I'm not hungry," he told her, his voice a little distant, the words coming out sounding almost rehearsed. Not surprising really, considering how many times he must have said them by now.

"Well," she said, taking it upon herself to sit in the armchair across from the couch, "I don't believe that." When her words successfully brought his attention her way she showed him a small but distinct shrug. She held his gaze as long as he would allow it. "You forget how long we've worked together now?" The words were almost a challenge, albeit a light one, and she lifted her brows at him. "I know you. And I know your appetite."

People like Miguel and Jim didn't get to be in the physical condition they were in by skipping meals.

He was still holding her gaze when he said, almost blandly, "You don't know me." He broke eye contact then, those unexpected words in that uncharacteristically flat tone still hanging heavily between them as he dropped his gaze first to the tray and then off to the side.

Maybe it was his jaw, she told herself, part of her knowing that she was trying to justify that tone. Wendy had told them that she had advised Miguel to keep speaking to a minimum as a result of the hairline fracture, something that she could only treat with painkillers and patience. Just like his ribs, Lonnie reminded herself, noting once again the subtle stiffness in the way Miguel was sitting on the couch. How much pain was he in?

She couldn't help but frown as she lifted her gaze back to his face, taking in for the first time the shadow of stubble across his jaw and the almost haphazard tumble of curls he had made no effort to keep out of his eyes.

The pain was greater than any of them could understand, she saw in that stubble and unkempt hair, in the loose clothing and slightly awkward posture, the averted gaze and almost lost expression. It was a kind of pain the likes of which none of them had ever experienced, she saw, and hopefully never would. Miguel Ortiz was one of the strongest people she knew, and yet as she looked at him then she saw very little of the man she had met all those months ago, the man she had come to understand and appreciate both on the bridge and off.

Lonnie didn't let herself stop to think about what she was doing as she rose from her seat and moved quietly around the table between them, before lowering herself to sit beside him instead. She noticed immediately the way he stiffened even further, hearing the slight but definite catch and hitch in his breathing as the unconscious effort strained his tender, battered ribs. It would have been easy then to retreat, put herself at more of a distance, but instead she closed it even further by taking one hand and setting it on top of his.

Miguel reacted, not violently but abruptly enough that she had to remind herself, forcefully, that she was in no danger. Almost reflexively he tried to pull his hand away but instead of allowing him to withdraw she caught his hand with her own, deftly sliding her palm against his and twining their fingers. Instinct took hold of him again and he held her hand in return, almost as if she was a ledge to which he had to desperately cling if he hoped to have any chance of surviving.

His head turned to her, an almost wild look of confusion and panic on his face for all of a few seconds before his eyes met hers and he seemed to come crashing back down to earth, and reality. His hand tightened on hers, almost uncomfortably so, but she didn't even so much as flinch. She just let him hold on.

For what felt like a very long time he just looked at her, his eyes searching her face for some sort of lie or trick or deception, or perhaps for some sign of resentment or disappointment. But Lonnie had none of that for him. Instead she had only regret, remorse, and understanding. Patience, hope, relief. And shame. She had let him down, they had _all_ let him down, and for that she was so very far beyond sorry.

His voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper, when he spoke, uttering one single word. "Why?"

Again Lonnie found herself transported back, not to the galley before they had known something terrible was happening to one of their own but after it had already happened. For a moment she was back in that abandoned little room, looking up into the same eyes before her now, believing it to be someone she knew and cared about when in reality it had been something else entirely.

Him, and yet not.

Her own voice was quiet when she replied, echoing her words in that moment in that room but speaking them for _him_ now. The real Miguel. "I think you know why."

His expression shifted, twisting into something confused and bewildered, before it softened. But it was weighted with sadness as well, his brow furrowed with a frown. In the low light of the room Lonnie saw the first shine of tears in his eyes. The stiffness started to slip from his shoulders, not quite melting but on its way, and he gave his head the subtlest shake from side to side.

"You know," she said, practically whispering herself, still holding onto his hand between them and looking back into those eyes which had become fixed on her face, just as they had been fixed on the table when she had arrived. Her eyes started to sting a little as well, and she lifted his hand, bringing it closer to her. Bringing _him_ closer, even if only in part. "You know why."

And she knew that he did. She could see it in his eyes, and feel it in the grip of his hand. She could see it in that crease in his brow and the small shake of his head. There was denial there as well, Miguel trying to tell himself that it wasn't true, it _couldn't_ be true, not after all that had happened, after all that he had done. But it was. And he knew.

"I'm not going anywhere," she told him then, keeping her voice quiet and seizing the opportunity to slide that little bit closer to him along the cushion. "I'm right here," she said, "and I'm going to stay." She lifted her other hand, touching it gently, lightly, to the side of his face, above his wounded jaw and the pain that it was causing him. "As long as you need me," she told him, looking right into his eyes. "I'm going to stay _right here_."

No matter what happened, no matter where else she was supposed to be, this was where she was _meant_ to be. This was where she _needed_ to be. Everything else be damned. Lonnie would face the consequences, whatever they might be, later. When this was done. When he was better.

Until then she wasn't going anywhere.


End file.
